The Death Of Me  

Posted by Unknown in , , ,

I am a dead man,
My emotions,
a placebo for her.

Why do I weep?
when I should hate?
I should have born stronger,
bred by stronger kin,
fed on stronger ration,
met by stronger beings.

Why do I care?
For am I too weak?
Why do I bide for fictive summons?
Aren't there other hearts to pursue and murder,
than a gentle demise of my own spleen?

I covet a surrogate existence,
where I were selfish and unexceptional - "I,
feel ignorant and incomplete,
But should I be single?" - an obtuse question.

I would have a choice though,
which I know not of, NOW.



Her Punishment: She sees a dead man; hollow outside, crisp inside.

This entry was posted on Friday, September 25, 2009 at Friday, September 25, 2009 and is filed under , , , . You can follow any responses to this entry through the comments feed .

2 comments

I hope this time the poem will get to stay longer. Brilliant stuff.

September 25, 2009 at 12:48 PM

Thanks man.

September 25, 2009 at 7:53 PM

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