it is my fault.
the way the chess pieces fall
against the odds, i am
the only one
in charge of my fate.
i cry for help,
help from people
that no longer seem
close.
i curse upon their lips,
as sweet honey falls from mine.
yet,
i am a loner.
and life, some sick metaphor.
wishing and praying
a human falls beneath me.
then i realize,
i am not what society wants.
i am an outcast.
it's all my fault.
for the way i am treated,
for the way men and women
all of the same nature,
look at me on the street.
as thorns graze upon my skin,
blood dipping so sweetly
from my finger tips,
i realize that pain
is only a made up
thing.
a thing i learn to love.
and for it is death,
that truly speaks to me.
my brain,
is only but a short fuse.
and i am slowly
ticking away.
i can't keep living
in solemn despair.
i can't keep fighting
my demons, as i continue
to enjoy
the way their fingers
latch into my skin.
they are winning.
and at this point,
i might let them.
- zmh
YOU ARE READING
the ruins of me
Poetryi love you; said me every time foolishly. if you see any grammer mistakes, please do not hesitate to contact me politely about them! also credit to whoever may have taken the picture of the flowers for my cover, I did edit it a bit but other than...
