Morbid manifestations,
of my thoughts of mercy,
have become the very hands,
willing to spill love.
Ready to abate,
the life lived for only eternity,
No longer than forever,
yet short of just that...
Blood- Bolstered knife in hand,
Blunt, yet so smooth,
It drags against hardened skin.
Knife to chest...
Razor to wrist...
The simplest cuts,
touch more,
than love could.
Your hands hold mine,
steadying the knife,
Grant me mercy,
and kill me before,
you love me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Difficult read for those of us that have felt this same way, but only because it's so dead on.10/10.