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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 26, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 26, 2017



Sometimes I wish I hadn't gotten out of bed.
Sometimes I think I should just be dead.
Sometimes the bullet gets me in the foot or skims just above my head
but every single time I feel the bullet through my chest.

I think I'm going crazy, someone get the nurse.
Sometimes I feel like the best but inside I know I'm the worst.
This curse will only disperse and I'll be the first to know if it works 'cause my mind and heart, is where they lurk.

A rapper and a poet are the same thing and they all rise and fall.
Most of which said they've suffered pain and thought of just ending it all.
Our minds are an endless bloodstained hall.
We want to shout for help, but we know it's useless to call.

 My anxiety always takes everything except pain when it attacks.
My asthma hits me hard till I'm on my back.
My vision gets blurry to where I can't see crap, a couple seconds later. what was that? A crack.

I've never broken a bone, well, not my own.
That crack was my heart, get the psych ward on the phone.
People say that they're here but I'm actually alone.

© Copyright 2018 Stella-Wolf. All rights reserved.

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