"pulpitations" poems
He asked me why I wasn't dead,
what selfish reason am I alive for anyway?
Thinking my rotting flesh can handle anymore wasted nights or blackened lungs.
Being told of a brighter future, yet my vision is blurred with a fish eyed lense and the way forward only sinks me deeper into its hell.
This hell, it burns me.
I feel it twisting my veins,
tightening my chest and wishing for death.
It brings pulpitations to my already cracked heart, as it creeps through the cracks which fill me with a roaring flame that doesn't bring the heat that might warm up a happy family on Christmas night. It is the burnt out ashes when they've all gone to bed and the gift wrappers left shredded at my feet..
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC