10 November 2012
Wishes of words not to come from you. Promise myself to not look blue. Dig a hole. I'll crawl inside. Bury me deep in layers of pride.
Before you do, give me a pad and pen, Something to do from now ’til then. Later, excavate my burdened remains, Uncover reason behind my tormented brain.
But maybe that sounds too far-fetched? Perhaps it's the walls I'll have etched. Damaged drywall trailed from nails, Across the paint, a blood-boat sails.
Left behind its ugly seas, Dried drip-lines of unheard pleas. Maybe I'll lie upon that floor, Under my art, hurting no more.
Emaciated, dead, and far, far gone, The less-travelled road you had to go on? In my death, I hope you'll bask, Next time, think before you ask.
Scared to Ask • Opuss № I