It's like being pinned to the wall
by arrows,
the pain is so unreal,
It's like being tortured slowly,
a never ending ordeal.
It's a beautiful feeling,
at least until the heart is punctured,
a knife driven through,
happiness ruptured;
Graves are filled,
'cause some now R.I.P,
this feeling we all search for
sometimes isn't sweet,
it strikes the heart
leaving a dead beat,
a body found
with levitating feet.
we perceive as a feeling that satisfies,
but behind its mask,
it's the slowest form of suicide.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem