The King is dead,
And a queen holds an odd flower,
Now the game will begin
Within the next hour;
Some spades are played
To dig a grave,
The hearts decide to pretend
To act silly but smart,
All clubs follow behind
While looking quite smug,
And all the diamonds
Sound their sirens.
it's all just a game
What sad sorrow one can bring
As paper is spoiled by the ink
From a pen whose forgotten name is
Loosely engraved on.
What deep despair one may have
As their blood pours gently down the sink.
When a blade goes across the skin to slash,
Only then, does one truly start to think.
It takes a genius
To write a good poem.
A good poem
Requires a dead poet.
A good poem
Comes from the heart.
A good poem indeed.
A new month, a bunch of weeks.
Increasing numbers of pointless, sad streaks.
As demons creep back into disguise,
The frequency of old, dusty board games slowly rise.
Fortunately, no fear nor fright came last night,
So now we await the near spark of light
To ignite such a bright and fiery sight.
I wish you all well these coming winter nights.
all your demons have finally died
i’m so sad..
Hurry they say; don't lose your chance.
As they stare with no further care, but I am lost in a trance.
Captivated by this love in which I fall,
Yet frustrated as I foolishly risk it all.
A love, untouched.