please
let me speak to you about fleeting things that keep me stitched and sane,
blood pours from my head, drips back down again
reminisce about the insignificant
reanimated, and buried with white roses
***** my vein
hide my face in tinted memories as i'm bleeding
rotting nest spent every season,
made me blind so project images onto my blank canvas
black out as i lose it
stream of red on violet roses
smell of death within my resting place
shedding hairs, **** the rest of me
killing hope, a devil's scheme that inadvertently
burned the roots of my family tree
i find the life hidden in this sickly stalling and the sharp pain of my suffering
so do i not deserve to live truly and peacefully?