I made my journal a ghost
covered with blankets...
Suspended here up high
amid the fickle cobwebs...
Hells rain catchers pointing skywards,
red and cutting shapes like broken eggshells...
How am I supposed to feel?
People and voices keep on telling me...
Warning: this poem consist of gruesome content...
Cool day with a summer breeze...
She gave me a taste and I took it on chance,
I had no idea not even a glance...
Unwritten death
The thin line slowly forms beads of red...
Eyes like fire
Soul like ice...
I beg you oh dear
schizophrenia, spare me...
Walking turns into running on this twisted pass,
From gravel to concrete and then to grass...
I find myself at times when life
takes me on her death road grind...
2014-04-22 04:38 AM
Thee, Seeker of hollow solace...