Slowly degenerating.
Neurons fading.Still breathing.Hair falling.Death's calling.The machines are just stalling. The inevitable. Clocks ticking.Wheels spinning. Sadly...the end is nearing.Dry tears.Brimming fears.Switching the gears.Gear seven.Plummit to heaven.After just 365 days times eleven.Minus one.So he's actually ten.But then again.Lets celebrate today incase.Tears run down his mothers face.Cause who knows what tomorrow brings. As the angels welcome him with songs they sing.A better life than he was living.On and on his spirit will go.Sweet hallelujah to the joys and sorrows.
Number3
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What about tomorrows..
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just different
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COMMENTS
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The Immortal Wize says: Very touching I like the word play. |
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2b2b2 says: Superbly crafted......BRAVO!!! |
OTHER POEMS WRITTEN BY Number3
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The Beggers 25thAwoken by the chirpin sounds. Neighborhoods livened.Carols and bells.Freshly baked muffins.The sweet smell.That propells.The hunger within.Friendlyness reigns in different weights.Measured by status, the conjuring pains.Increase as the begger walks.To the light.Decorations of the midnight.And early morning. The begger rummages.Dinners served.Ice cold. Steal burns. Lids of trashes being turned.Milk and cookies for Santa. . .The begger pulls the make-shift blankets closer.Seeking closure.Fierce temperature exposure. Contemplating emotions weighing him down like he carries boulders. . .There's a brighter day.The next day.The spirit of the 25th.Hope to believe. The will to breath. The strength to live. . . |
Sweet silent sedativeMisty breath. Chapped lips.Wire mesh.Wringed limbs.Shattered jaws.Plucked roots.Iron claws.Coarsely sooth.Throats serrated.Knees debilitated.Caps harnessed. Skin tone tarnished. Diminished tethering away.Hacked.Smacked.Soon to be stacked. Another statistic.Of the ballistic. Catastrophic. Ill minded diabetic.Harvesting insulin.Dripping scarlet.From the chin.Adams apple.Eves apple.Toddlers apple.Apple juice. Nectar dripping.Spectacle began shimmering. Twinkling. Buckets colleting to the brim.Satisfaction. Relinquish. Sweet tastey flesh. Tip of the tongue.Sensation named death. |
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What about tomorrows..Slowly degenerating. Neurons fading.Still breathing.Hair falling.Death's calling.The machines are just stalling. The inevitable. Clocks ticking.Wheels spinning. Sadly...the end is nearing.Dry tears.Brimming fears.Switching the gears.Gear seven.Plummit to heaven.After just 365 days times eleven.Minus one.So he's actually ten.But then again.Lets celebrate today incase.Tears run down his mothers face.Cause who knows what tomorrow brings. As the angels welcome him with songs they sing.A better life than he was living.On and on his spirit will go.Sweet hallelujah to the joys and sorrows. |
Russian roulette with a twistIts your turn. Time to earn.Or burn.From the cold steel.How power feels.And troubles end.Pull the trigger.Family hier a grave digger.Five ways of freedom.Plus a direction of doom.Is it your lucky day?Then spin I say.Paint the room red.No-more tucking in your daughter.To bed.Like you said.On the suicide note.Where your blood.Like a flood.One streak from end to end.Devided the page in half and half.The pro's and the cons.Your swan song.In the kicthen.On the table sitting.Trembling.HyperventilatingOver-thinking.Reaching.For the barrel.Time to gamble.All in.You can't win.If it's against yourself.Bang bang with stealth.Your last breath.Hello death. |