qfreak69

I use too write poetry,
With words that could turn into stream of honey,
Stirred by my tough, and the breath from my words,
But now something has died inside, there the light ceases to exist.
Blackness is all I feel, within, this hollow shell.
The words have died a horrible death, of torture and pain.
Words beat against my chest, so madly as to break it.
But not one can break the ice within my soul. No one wishes to hear the words of a mad man.
Death is all that I can see; emptiness is all around me.
My sun has turned black; all my stars have fell from the sky. I have asked to be saved,
But not one has come to my aid; all that has been is a knife within my heart.
All that will be is lost; all that has been means nothing.
Present slips away into the darkness, with each instance of time.

Unfinished.