Pain
Drowning is excrutiating.
More so in your own blood,
Your illusions.
Slowly, I hum along to the
tune of my own death.
What else could a puppet do
But dance?
Death is a treasure. Peaceful.
Life is torture. Unbearable.
Ashes lie where a bright flame flickered.
Violently extinguished.
Choked by a diet of untruths.
My endurance is puzzling.
Maybe i was ensnared-
Irretrievably bound.
Inevitable isn't it?
To feel the ripping of a heart
And the extermination of young emotions.
The humming ceases-
The end is near.
His pulsing palm is
where my pump rests.
The fiction" I love you,"
sometimes seems so true.
Love is pain.
Pain is not love
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