Sick and tired of pain,
Your demons cannot be slain.
They run reckless in your head,
Always needing to be fed.
They feed on thoughts of blood
That come over you like a flood.
Forced to smile and pretend
But this suffering never ends.
You beg and plead
But all you do is bleed.
With nowhere to run,
Playing games with a gun,
Holding it up high,
Ready to reach the sky.
YOU ARE READING
Poems of the Dead-Minded
PoetryPoems of the past, present, possible future. Who knows when your only life is hell? This is just a collection of stuff that pops into my head throughout the day so.. I hope you like it.....
