PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The blood that trickles from my arm spills

To prove that I still live.  The pills

They put in my cup slide down my throat

Regulate my thoughts while they give hope.

The assurance they give in therapy

Last but a second while I wade through the tree.

I am so far detached from anything in life.

My tongue does not taste; it forms words that are trite.

Eyes are blind to beauty the cavity holds lost spheres.

Every sound that ignites around is muffled by bleeding ears.

If this is what the afterlife for me beholds

Then the riches of his kingdom have already been sold.