The blood on my hands
Interferes with my feeling
My digits numb rocks
A sticky mess of drying gore
Stupidly dripping and fumbling
To hold in the screams
As I start to feel the pain.
The weight in my head
Interferes with my thinking
My mind’s a cold soup
An unidentifiable slop of chunks
Sloshing back and forth
With my slow rocking
As I’m trying to ease the pain.
The gun in my hand
Interferes with nothing
My mind is made up
An ironclad promise to myself
Cock the hammer pull the trigger
A slow fall to the floor
As I’m released of all the pain.
Author notes
I don't think this one needs notes.
A contest entry
- Suicidal Tendencies by Haunted Doll.
675 points, ended December 4, 2007, 11 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What do you think?
Comments
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My digits numb rocks
A sticky mess of drying gore
Stupidly dripping and fumbling
To hold in the screams
My mind’s a cold soup
An unidentifiable slop of chunks
Sloshing back and forth
With my slow rocking
whoa, talk about descriptive
really liked this
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