I sit here in silence thinking of my fate, the quiet seeping through me making me ache.
I see the shiny grey sliver next to my bed, I wonder if tonight I'll end up dead.
I play with it turning it around in my palm, I slice at my skin and start to calm.
But he walks in with a smile on his face, I freak out and feel my heart race.
He asks me a simple question then leaves, not noticing my legs as the bleed.
He's given up hope, of that I'm sure. I've lost my dreams, there's no hope left for a cure.
My mind is made up and that how it'll stay, I can hear laughter of the dead saying 'come play.'
My thigh is now soaked in the dripping bright red, I can still feel echoes of what others have said.
They tell me they care and will stay close to me, then when I mention this they say I'm crazy.
They've left me to this final decision to make, little do they know I've had all I could take.
I've lost myself and will never come back, so why stay here when my world has turned black?
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Comments about this poem (Black by Crystal Blanchette )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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