Warm smiles,
soft embraces,
kind words and perfect imperfections --
don't I deserve to have someone like that?
When I close my eyes I can see their faces,
and it's like they're real.
I can lose myself in my mind,
tell myself I'm one of them,
I can pretend my hands are theirs,
forget that I'm just a normal human.
But they never stay and they disappear.
I reach out
and they're gone.
All that's left is me in this dreadful place.
I exist outside of this normality,
this world doesn't know all that I am.
And I long for someone to understand,
and I know where to find them:
in my dreams.
How do people live without imagination?
How do they survive without escaping?
I'll never understand
and that's what they can never realize about me.
But in the depths of my illusions,
I can tell myself they love me,
I can pretend I'm someone else,
I can exist within another realm.
So as I fall,
as I fade,
can I pretend for a moment more?
That it's real,
that it doesn't just exist inside my head,
that I can know these people I created.
In those worlds I'm in control,
I can change all that I want,
I can be whoever I please.
But when I open my eyes,
when I put the pen down,
there's just me.
When I feel my body growing heavy and cold,
when I feel my heartbeat slow and stop,
those gentle hands will approach me,
their soft voices will tell me my time is up.
And I won't feel any fear
because I'm going home.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of Death
Poetry"You kept saying that you would never die, that you would live forever. But here you are, and here I am. Isn't it funny? I'm here to take your soul. Did I mention, I love my job? Oh right! I never told you. I'm the reaper who will reap your life." B...
