Labelled A Coward's GameMature

I love him 'cause he'll let me die,

If I ask him not to care,

He won't try to force upon me,

A life I never wanted to live,

Suicide is harder to achieve,

 than people think,

They label it a coward's game,

But would any of you haters ever have the guts,

To take your own wrist and slit it,

You losers who make paper-cut victims,

Seem like the bravest souls in this twisted, mortal world,

Of finger-pointers, gossip contamination, tabloid infection,

We drink in the images of stereotypical perfection,

That the media doesn't even have to try and force-feed us with,

Because we are set in such a way,

That we instinctively know to follow them,

And try to be like them,

Striving all our lives to be somebody else.


The End

30 comments about this poem Feed