The window fogs, the tears still flow.
How can I reap what I did not sew?
The blade upon the broken table;
Says I can, says I'm able.
Laying here upon my bed;
Tears they fall, tears I dread.
Sorrow that shows the weakness inside,
Sorrow that I cannot hide.
I pick up the dagger, so simple, so sweet.
There's an urge that I cannot defeat.
I hold the weight upon my palm.
Should it worry that I can be so calm?
I tuck back my hair and pull up my sleeve;
Years of scars begging pain to leave.
I pray to the lord that this time;
I can manage the courage to do the crime.
I place the blade upon my arm;
The blood flows like a mystical charm.
A puddle emerges upon the floor,
No one will care to come through the open door.
The tears still flow, another cry;
Please lord this time just let me die.
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Collections from the mind of Asha
This is mostly poems. Poetry is the part of yourself you can only put on paper. With anything you write you put part of yourself into it.
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