Of a World That Hurts the Mostmature
The knife sits idly on the bathroom counter.
Concentrating won’t make it disappear.
Turn away,
let it go.
But you can’t.
Pick it up
slowly,
hesitantly.
Look around.
Is someone coming?
Will someone stop you?
No.
And that’s what hurts the most.
Knife to skin,
skin to knife
What does it matter,
when we’re all going to die regardless?
The pain!
It hurts!
Perfect lines cross your skin.
Leaving wet tracks of red.
Blood pours out.
Your blood.
Bright and shocking.
A gasp of pain.
Before bliss settles.
No worries.
No mental anguish.
Just a burning pain.
You know you shouldn’t have done it.
Why does the forbidden fruit,
always taste the sweetest?
Floating away,
less than air.
Losing the world.
Or is it the world that’s losing you?
Will someone save you?
No.
And even at the end,
that will always be what hurts the most.
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THE GOODS
You're currently reading the poem
Of a World That Hurts the Most, which
was posted on May 19, 2011 by
ashika_manu.
This is a solo poem.
About this poem
"This poem is about suicide (see tags).
When I read it now, it doesn't really f..."
This poem is filed under:
Abstract
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