Collection

A poem by Raea Adams

 

Each time the sun arrives

My ice heart hides

Letting the light inside slide.

Leaking onto a blank page,

Memories like a suicide

Each time I view them.

 

A twisted theatre

Word by word ,

I craft my noiseless plight

I’m done fighting the endless fight.

 

Tears converted to bullets

Blood traded for strength,

My poems give me insight

To a world I now cut myself apart from.

A note is too simple,

I may not leave even a ripple,

In this place and time.

 

But my time is now,

This is my suicide poem

I’m tired of writing these poems

Tired of singing to the cold wolves.

I’m throwing it all away

To be reborn a greater person

Tomorrow.

I will write poems that twist your mind,

Show you life in a brand new paradigm!

Stories that will grow louder!

As hate grows prouder in these dire times.

 

I am a poet,

I am a writer,

I am dead to you,

I am dead to this world;

I am alive in these pages I fill.

 

What is life?

A collection of memories.

Use your breathe with caution,

It could be the last you take.

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