This is a poem I wrote when I was sixteen. In no way does it reflect current feelings, and in no way do I condone self mutilation/suicide. -T.S. Falco.
So here I sit in an empty room
ringing vibrations, it’s music, my last hope
and yet it’s my fall, it’s so far down
and yet it’s my life, it’s all I’ve known
for so long ago, when I’d lost hope
it was still there to pick me up
so flee, parents flee the wrath of God
you created me
these bloodshot eyes that fade to black
these still-scarred wrists, these blood stained hands
conviction
oh yes, conviction. you feel it mom?
no, why wopuld you, you’ve known all along
my last question for you
do you still see me as your son?
no
these blood shot eyes that fade to black
these still-scarred wrists, these blood stained hands
they’re not your son
so in conclusion my life will end
so far away from where I began
careful
another son you still might lose
it all depends on your next move
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