Wrong Things


I like writing poems in ink.
You can't erase what you write down, only cover up.
The same thing some do with their lives,
To scared to talk to someone or simply communicate.
hiding their canvases that they paint with razor blades.
The judgments flu by.
Day by day as something goes wrong.
No one likes you
No one cares.
But you will never notice the ones that are really there.
You see your life at home and think that's the world
You think that is how everything is ran.
There's no reason for you to be here.
So you just keep up with the fear.
thinking about a rope lifting your hopes up for now on.
But the stool will lift you up
The rope carries your soul.
As your breath slowly fades away, you see everything below.
And then your finally words...so long.
you will be missed, by the people who
laughed and picked, even antagonized you.
They pushed you over the edge.
They were the ones that threw insults and threats.
No feeling sympathetic,
But they really feel like you felt...pathetic.

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