THE MAN IN THE MIRROR
Fires ablaze within his abated eyes,
A smile concealing all his lies,
Screaming, begging, calling out,
A final, frantic, desperate shout.
Scarlet tears drip from each vein,
a vehemet covet to end his pain,
This silver blade stays by his side,
Because all hope inside has died.
As each day ends, and darkness draws,
The Devil toys with all his flaws,
helpless, alone, a worthless mess,
A broken child he must address.
I'm tempted when he calls his name,
A way out, an escape an end to shame,
To make it feel a lot less real,
A deal with the Devil, in blood he must seal.
They'll say he died of suicide,
But no one knows how much they've lied,
It wasn't a rope, a blade or pills,
That broke his soul and gave him chills.
He died inside to long before,
To live each day, an endless chore,
Pills could not kill what was already dead,
A twisted soul, an empty head.
In darkness he wait, in silence, alone,
Rose-tinted nostalgia, all around him has grown.
He beckon the Devil with the key of self-harm,
And I open the door for him with the blood of my arm.
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Comments about this poem (THE MAN IN THE MIRROR by Stanley Oguh )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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