When your bones run dry
And your blood runs cold
And you're six feet in the ground
Who will even notice
When you're no longer around
When your eyes roll back
And your skin gets pale
And you've felt Death's icy kiss
Who will care to talk about
How much you will be missed
When the trees whisper your name
At your ghostly presence
And your room remains untouched
Who will have realized
That you finally had enough
When you're lifeless and still
And a few hours gone
And they find a bloody knife
Who will be the first to see
That you took your own life.
YOU ARE READING
A little piece of me
PoetrySome amateur poems and the occasional rant. Titles with *** at the end are my personal favorites
