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Died On A Bed of Roses
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Dark Poetry You don't know what goes on.
You can't see how spins this mind of mine.
How it turned to one perpetual fall
and how I want to kill you all.
Oh, how I live without the shame.
Feel no remorse for I can change.
Only me—a murderer.
Still standing, with a weapon in hand and my blood in the other.
Only me—a victim.
Still form lying, with a weapon in hand and blood on my face—inside my mouth.
I’ve come to loathe and fight this house.
(I want to incinerate—tear it the fuck down.)
There will never be a home, simply and only a broken poem.
So I’ll set it alight and watch the flames spread.
(Mesmerized.)
Waiting, while I lay despair in my bed.
(Suicide.)
Now upon a blanket of dead roses, I burn.
(Turn, turn, turn.)
