A MESSAGE 2MYSELF

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
THIS POEM IS LIKE IM HAVING A CONVERSATION WITH MYSELF

Submitted: January 26, 2014

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Submitted: January 26, 2014

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Your mind is a wasteland; desolate But this hell you live in is indefinite. You believe you are worthless. But my dear, your life is precious. You've made a promise to try to recover, Yet you still dream of pulling the trigger. Your thoughts get the best of you, and the shots begin. One shot, two shots, three shots, four, still you dream of the end. A blade used to be your only companion, A friend you've long ago abandoned. The red painted across your canvas of skin, Wasn't enough to bring the thougths to an end. Going from a blade, to a gun, to a bottle of jack, Soon to weed, then drugs, you can't turn back. You couldn't imagine your life would turn out like this. You probably believe you're one fucked up mess. Darling it's okay to admit you're shattered. But you need to realize you actually matter. So try to believe me, when I say you are loved. You are my whole world, and if push comes to shove. I'd give up eveything, to prove you're of value, And to heal your pain. But for now, do me favor, try to remain.


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