I sit there pondering as,
Suicidal poems writing themselfs,
One letter at a time,
Across my mind.
Never to touch my lips,
Or to be put on paper,
Simply to be replayed in my head,
Many many times.
They sit there simmering,
Waiting to be heard,
For not even I, really hear them,
I did not think of them. I am not suicidal.
Yet they are there,
Yet death marchs across my brain,
As if my body is being taken,
By an alien, to execute me.
Leaving me sitting alone,
With nothing left to fear,
Except my mind,
My soul, and my body.
Not knowing what will happen,
If I am left alone,
And whatever writes those poems,
Comes alive. |
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