I'm not in writer's block anymore. So here's a poem I wrote, in school. Because I was bored.
This is just a story that has already ended.
But just let the ceiling spin.
My mind is else where.
My hands upon the razor.
I heary my skin rip open.
And the lies crawl.
But the pain feels soo good.
I start another line,
and smile pretending he was mine.
This is just a story thats has
already ended, but sometimes it could begin.
Maybe this wasn't suppose to happen like this,
hanging from a tree, I found my reason.
Choking down the pills, and puking up the lies.
That night changed my life.
The cigarettes tasted lovely,
as it burns another hole into my lung.
How could I let this happen, my heart stops.
Like a dead slave in a tree, there, I hung