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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.




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



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


I’m leaving, not taking a damn thing

Set fire to my clothes

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