The rusted manacles of my mind,
Forcing me to be blind,
It ends today,
Staring at the lists,
Cut and torn like my wrists,
Opening bottles as I go,
Hoping nobody else will know,
The sirens have started blaring,
But I'm not really caring,
This is my only chance,
Pills are pouring down my throat,
Empty bottles by my coat,
The burning starts,
Guilt for all the broken hearts,
The tears have started dripping,
Soon I'm drinking not just sipping,
Everything starts to fade,
Stroking the muzzle,
Now I've really started to guzzle,
I pull the trigger,
Now I'm just a broken figure,
With that I take the leap,
And Beachy Head is where my blood will start to seep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
death is possible consequence of life good or bad.........so what if it is the result of some precious moments.............nice write........