i lay here and look at the sky
cursing God and asking why
was i put upon the earth?
brought to be through painful birth?
should i give thanks for a painful breath?
im more inclined to thank for death
my broken heart like glass returns to sand
slipping through my painful broken hands
my broken eyes cannot read what i have wrote
my broken sobs caught in my broken throught
like a vase tossed aside
once thought to be a source of pride
but when i start to lay in waste
your cold shoulder is all i face
this silver knife, sharp and true
and somehow reminds me of you
caught my heart in one swift slice
i thank thee, for end of life

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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) American poet.

crazydude’s Poems (14)

Title Comments
Title Comments
The Demon I Adore 0
You 1
i am the night 4
Choose Me! 1
choices 1
Onward 0
We Thank You 1
sleep come 0
take wing, my heart 2
Broken 0
What have we here? 1
Seek, My Love 0
Desire 1
the story of the lost child 4