Everyday I wake up to a storm of torment.
An air raid siren cry that pierces and augments.
My, suicidal tendencies as if they weren't enough.
I'm just that 'nobody' with a soul that's morphine cuffed.
Mother, I wish you could live my world like I do.
Walking on these razor blades,
But only lies can cut through.
My, dark gray skin,
Blends in like a silhouette,
A shadow I cannot forget,
A sculpted vision to regret.
I'm nice to the world that's quick to spit the fire,
That's why Karma's up at night putting my heart through barbed wire.
See, but that's just how it works.
A broken record act always turning into curse.
Now it's time for a nail in the coffin,
More like a bullet through the skull,
To get the spirits talking. A prolific author of my story,
Playing God,
I'd have foreseen.
But when you read my final chapter,
It says I'm dead at sixteen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
walking on razor blades, hard-life. thanks. I invite you to read my poems and comment.