Poems of a mended artist.

Knives in my back.

I'd been dead only an hour. 

The words that I've heard..     harmful and horrid.

now I see their words behind my back, even the knife in my bodies back doesn't hurt as much. 

They cry to get the pitty. 

 I'm the one one dead, shouldn't they be feeling pitty for me? 

I was young, I had so much left to give, even though I never had the motivation. 

I could've done so much if only I actually did it. 

guess this death was what I needed to realize how much I missed.. 

but now I'm too late to fix anything, 

So as I see the dark of death, 

I miss the light I saw when my life flowed before my eyes one last time, 

and welcomed death with open arms.