Categories > Original > Poetry1 Reviews
I could come back and sing once again some day.
Smashed guitars under crashed hearses,
Tell me, where do I fit in again?
Somewhere between the verse and the chorus?
Somewhere beneath my own suffocation,
I beg of you to lay here by my side,
For what it’s worth,
I just remember more than I should,
And it hurts to close my eyes,
But if those fucking bastards locking my memories away
I could come back and sing once again some day,
Maybe I’d feel more than this,
And I wouldn’t long for the feeling of blood flowing down my wrists,
From my wrists,
Still only superficial, despite the stitches I ripped from them
Give myself another burn until there’s no oil left,
Rot in hell, bitch, because no one cares,
The dead want you to die,
They swing, swing, swing,
As they sing, sing, sing,
Of your sins,
Cutting open your skin,
Blood pours out from within,
Scream bitch and beg,
I hope you die,
Rot in hell,
And burn, burn, burn,
I hate you and your innocence,
Ripped from you, that innocence.
With fingers and the drugs and the pills and the burn,
Of the alcohol and shaking hands,
Of words you couldn’t understand,
And moods just like a hurricane,
And avalanche, you feel from
Heaven straight to hell,
Smashed through purgatory with your cut up wings,
And these sins,
All of these sins,
Are echoed in my daily life,
They handed me the Bible,
Told me to read it,
Wanted me to convert back,
But what’s the point if I don’t believe?
So I sit here with messed up hair and a fucked up head,
And I long,
Oh, I long,
To be dead.