Categories > Original > Poetry0 Reviews
It’s dilapidated, sure, but it’s the only place we have.
The window of the last house on the edge of the street,
It’s dilapidated, sure, but it’s the only place we have,
Where we share stories of how the world is knocking us down.
What about the boy who said he was okay?
Found hanged in his bedroom the very next day.
And that girl, the one we all kept close?
Turns out she took a fatal overdose.
And the boy whose arms were covered in dried blood,
Was found under red water in his bathtub.
That girl who promised that we’d find a way,
Jumped of her roof, now she’s left to decay.
And remember that kid who died?
Well, apparently, that was another suicide.
So how are you, I dare to ask,
You look away, not up to the task?
You mumble the same question in return,
I smile, but inside, it starts to burn.
How am I? I ask myself,
I’m fine, I lie, shoved back on the shelf.
Tonight, I realise how many tears we’ve cried,
And I hope there’ll be no more suicide.