The Dead Ones

With broken hearts and bloody wrists,
we beat ourselves with hidden fists.
Minds and souls dug deep into shallow graves,
to the darkness we are slaves.
A fractured existence,
with no way to form resistance.
Born with a broken heart,
that keeps tearing apart.
Happiness has been forgotten,
drowned under sickness and rotten.
A maternal illness,
only nurturing deaths quickness.
We are the dead ones,
with pain we can't outrun.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem