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My Life, the Way it Really Is
My heart burns
In its broken pieces
I can no longer stand the pain
Is my life worth living?
Does anyone care for me, my feelings, or my existance?
The blood already dripping down my arm is a sign
I dont have much time
My eyes blur with tears
I give in to the pull of Death's hands on my soul
Everything goes black.
I like the poem, but it is
I like the poem, but it is hard to tell if the writer is saying that his/her body is in pain and that he/she is dying, and no one cares, or if he/she is in emotional pain and no one cares. It sounds as if the writer would like the reader to understand it is physical, but if so, then why wouldn't the subject of the poem apply pressure to the wound?
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "
This is an example of
This is an example of emotional pain turning into purposeful physical pain. The subject of the poem doesn't want to apply pressure to the wound because they want to die.
I once had an experience
I once had an experience where I passed out.
For no apparent reason.
A hypoglycemic faint.
Was standing in the grocery store.
At a counter, ready to pay my bill.
Everything started spinning.
Colors and lights started to twirl.
I remember dropping,
and hitting my chin on the counter.
After that everything went black.
And I turned blue from lack of breath.
I felt somebody slapping me.
It was my friend saving me.
He slapped me hard a couple of times.
Until I came to, right in time.
It was a peaceful moment,
as I lay there in the black.
I don't remember anything,
except for that hard slap.
But I was pleased to be alive.
I thought for a moment that I had died.
I am grateful for my life.
Even all the moments of strife.
I wouldn't want to die right now.
There's far too much I'd like to learn about.
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