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I Write Poetry, Weird.

This particular poem means a lot to me, because, as far as I know it was the last poem I wrote before I attempted suicide by hanging at the age of 18.

 

SICK LIFE

 

You’re striped like a zebra and I am nothing but a hungry lion

Waiting to tear you up and apart

Licking my lips, though my claws are dull today

I may just salivate from a distance

And let you get away

 

Your hair is blowing in the wind I’ve made

Of emotions frayed

Greetings and meetings

Frighten the same fawn

There is no such thing as moving on

 

Going with the current (you can’t predict that shit)

I walk and wonder without a thought

Put to mind (mine)

Where am I going? (roaming)

What am I doing? (loathing)

Besides wasting time…

 

He is mine and making me drool

Even light years away

The cause of my permanent stay

This is not a child at play

 

Windchimes

Door knocks

Lost time

No socks

 

Thoughts and dreams that cross over seas

The only beautiful thing

I go on

Without a whimper

This is what I mean

 

She moves like dark clouds

Covering my sun

She rains over my prey

So, I shiver to the bone

 

Run, run, run

Before we drown in her

Self-loathing

I’m leaving, not taking a damn thing

Set fire to my clothes

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