I'm sick of poems
that that talk of death
and how your stupid
boyfriend left
lets not get up
and get a life
just grab your paper,
pen, and knife
lets talk of blood
upon the floor
and lovely darkness
we adore
all you say
is "my life rots"
and then you write
your emo thoughts
no one cares
about your dreads
and how you just
wish you were dead
they aren't as deep
as you might think
when you say in them
"my life will sink"
I really hate
your "broken wings"
and screeching songs
your dumb heart sings
these emo poems
are really stale
all they make
IS EPIC FAIL
you say your tears
are full of blood
and cry so much
Don't rest roses on my grave,
trail of bouquet that you pave.
Vibrant death, ignorantly conveyed,
leading too, my buried cave.
What flowers, my love, have you brought today?
Daises?
Soil in dead eyes, all to grainy.
Tulips?
Memory waning, soon to forget.
Poppies?
A bold quartet, pedals of debt.
Ah, a rose?
Don't mask your woe, we both know,
I am gone, grown so cold.
Fading marrow, in my bones.
Corpse alone, parted soul.
May I love, be so bold?
Do not,
let your heart bleed,
forever sorrow, forever grieve.
Let me be.
And on my grave, let grow weeds.
Don't rest roses on my grave.
Can I tell you how I died?
Why it rhymes with suicide.
Not because, I fell ill.
Not because, I swallowed pills.
Soon you'll see why I lie still.
Not because, I have drowned.
Not because of, Russian Roulette's
last round.
Deaf words of mine,
preach no sound.
Not because, the fault of life
Not because, the sharpened knife.
Real reason, why, tears went dry.
Not because, I jumped to fall.
Not because, this body I mauled.
The more I remember,
the harder too recall.
The true answer is i'm,
alive.
But to me,
the meaning of suicide:
Is
that
you
left
me
dead
inside.