I was young, a life to live.
A job, a kid, a man to love.
My life was short, I knew it soon,
That I was unable, to live, the way I was.
I sat everyday, and hoped for the best.
Hoping for a day when the world doesn’t stare,
From above, and laughs,
Popcorn in hand,
A drink in a holder,
Watching me struggle, and hate through life.
Day one,
A slap,
A burning sting,
It’s remains a buzz, and a faint red mark.
The wound on your heart isn’t permanent,
And it will pass.
Day two,
A hit,
A breathless pound.
Its throbbing, a bruise forming.
It’s healing, slowly, but it is.
And you’ll forget.
Day three.
A scream for help.
Gasping, breath escaping into the world as a high pitched shriek.
The noise rammed into your brain, as you try to survive.
You won’t forget, it won’t disappear.
And you know it’s over.
And as you sit, screaming for help,
You understand what happened.
It was your fault, in some odd way.
You made this happen.
The hate, the anger, everything was you.
And in the end, you lay quietly,
Your eyes drift close, as you realize it’s useless.
Your voice is gone, not that you’ll need it anymore.
Your throat is throbbing, and in your last seconds, that’s all you care,
Because.
In the face of death,
We all think of the weirdest things.
And soon it comes, and death grabs you,
And takes you to it’s endless prison.