Not Surviving.

Razor blades,
Pulsing veins,
Slit them some,
Vision fades.
~
Screeching sirens,
Life is dying,
Friends are crying,
Not surviving.
~
Beeping stops sounding
From machines surrounding.
Doctor bows his head,
Praying for the dead.

She walks to her seat,
Mourning over the deceased.
The depressing music stops,
And the minister starts his job.
~
The girl looks around,
With teary eyes,
Almost all the seats empty,
Where family should have arrived.
~
She takes a head-count,
And to her surprise,
Very few people came,
A total of five.

Later that night,
She whispered goodbye,
And put a blade,
To all visible veins.

~~~

This poem was written at around eleven this morning. I had a bad feeling all day, and that's what came out of it. This poem was so close to becoming semi-true, that it's crazy, and it scares me, really. I don't know what would've happened if this came true, but... I can't really help thinking about it a little.

~TnA