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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A girl in the car crash had shards of glass embedded into the back of her skull. She's in a coma, and nobody knows if she'll ever be okay anymore. Everyone's saying she's alive, but if she were, she'd be talking to us, right? So now, all I can think of to do is wait until they pronounce her 'dead'. As if she didn't seem dead already... Don't worry , this is STRICTLY FICTIONAL. It's a tug between war and the comatose girl...

Submitted: July 11, 2008

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Submitted: July 11, 2008



Mistake. Murder. Call it what you will.

Accident. Suicide. It all means the same thing.

'Highway 557 Blocked Due to Massive car crash'

'Princess ******* Killed in Car Crash'

'Queen******* Poisoned By Mystery Assailant'

You'll find to your horror the suspect was right under your nose.

Watching ,reading headlines keeps us on our toes.

Killing,fighting,the war, and the diying, idiots who are always thecause forthe crying

War,murder,attempted suicide,it doesn't change a single thing.

You'll leave thousands behind mourning your death.

You'll leave nothing behind when those people forget.

You'll never see the light of day after that crash in the highway.

Fragments of glass in your head, now all you can do is lay in bed.

You're living and yet you're not really alive, we pray that suicide rates will take a nosedive,

But it won't happen until everything stops.

As if that will ever happen.

So let's all cause a riot in the Town Square, let's scream and let's shout until life starts seeming fair.

We'll be beaten and killed and destroyed for beliefs,

But crashes I hear just remind me of you .

You smiled the last seconds until the truck kissed your head roughly

I stared at your blood in shock whilst the sirens wailed.

All I can do now is sit by your bed

They say that you're living,I say that you're dead , These tubes and these tangles are so you are fed...

Yet all I can do is wait til you're pronounced dead.

© Copyright 2017 ChibiMaeLynne. All rights reserved.

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