(This poem is focused about someone's suicide. You have been warned)
I remember walking down these empty halls of this school. The light chill you get from when someone opens a door to the outside. Now that chill is constant. As the years went on the school closed, leaving it to teens for parties or a place to escape. The walls are painted with red spray paint. The floor covered in broken glass, beer cans, and empty boxes of cigarettes. As I make my way down the hall, exploring the place I used to live at, I take pictures to remember what I use to have. I remember when someone had a fight at the lockers about food. And that other time when some girl cheated on her boyfriend. I continue down the halls. The red spray paint becomes a dark, blood red. A smell started to form, a smell of something old... someone old. As I continue the smell gets stronger, the paint begins to drip like fresh blood. I turn the corner to meet a girl laying on the floor. Her eyes are completely crystallized, fresh blood dripping from her wrist. I stare at her as if she was going to tell me her name, but she doesn't have too. The dead girl on the floor, she is me. She is what I did to myself. I begin to cry as I fell to the floor, screaming for help. I hear what I think is help. But it's just the school collapsing in, holes are being made causing the school to fold into its self. Then it stops. Then I wake up. I wake up, in a bed of red.
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of self-harm or suicide, please know that help is available. For residents in the U.S. and Canada, please contact 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
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The Collection
ПоэзияThis is just a collection of just random free verse poems and really short, short stories. This is rated mature, some of these are about suicide, death, and who knows what else I add in the future. There is my warning If you or someone you know is...
