Misery Public-AppealMature

Sand slips through the hands of time,

Days are numbered as thoughts are stained,

By blood and the blackening poisonous substance,

Known to society as depression,

Scars deepen at the same pace as dark thoughts,

Halos rust and wings become scabbed,

I don't know what to think anymore,

The public want either resilience they can compliment yet pity,

Or fits of anguished tears that they can prey on,

They don't want a clean break,

Like suicide,

They want a mangled, bloody, splintered one,

Kill myself to make the finger-pointers pay,

How will 'he' react when I die today?

The End

20 comments about this work Feed