July 21st, the last time I did a poem.
I'm losing my creative flow,
I'm losin what I would call.
Home....
I'm dying
In my locked cell
Behind, Closed doors.
There is no escape.
And. You find yourself wonder
Is. There. Life. For. Me. On.
This planet
Or. The next
I run my own race
And I come in last against myself.
So riddle me this?
Should I move the knife away
From my neck.
Or... Should I drag in slowly across
My. Throat.
You decide.
Cause I'm done helpin myself.
Cause I always come...
In. Last. Place.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
July 21st, the last time I did a poem.
I'm losing my creative flow,
I'm losin what I would call.
Home....
I'm dying
In my locked cell
Behind, Closed doors.
There is no escape.
And. You find yourself wonder
Is. There. Life. For. Me. On.
This planet
Or. The next
I run my own race
And I come in last against myself.
So riddle me this?
Should I move the knife away
From my neck.
Or... Should I drag in slowly across
My. Throat.
You decide.
Cause I'm done helpin myself.
Cause I always come...
In. Last. Place.
You have 48 hours...
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