Dark Poetry ~ The Weapon Curse

We look.
We question.

Giving rise to our,
depressive minds.

We depress life’s buttons,
to find answers,
too many answers.

Always wondering,
if you’re right or wrong.

Hope is dead,
in the eyes,
of the drained.

Eyes of the starving,
strive for logic,
but find no peace…

Looking for happiness… deceased.
Our roots,
withered and decaying.

Hoping this hole inside,
is bled dry.

Six inch valley,
inside my skull.

Deep scalpel swimming,
in deep red floods,
deep in the sand…

Time’s tool,
the weapon curse.

Just one day,
to ride in a hearse.

So try hard,
to remember.

We’re not dead…


It is not time,
to let go…

So, please,
enjoy this moment,
with me.

Enjoy all things,
but don’t think,
too much.

You might break your springs.