I am running out of time.
The hands keep poking at my mind — this ought to be a crime
The days are a dripping headache — like the ceiling.
My dry skin is peeling — losing all feeling.
I cannot defeat such winding sadness — ticking is reeling.
My hours are robbed — such a horrid stealing.
Remaining are always dropping minutes of heartache.
Remaining is a bucketing wake.
For heavens sake — pause the gears by this house on the lake!
Can no one hear my heart quake?
Nothing will be left,
but a memory theft!
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Author:
Vevna Forrow (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 18th, 2021 07:48
- Category: Sad
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: depressionofbecca
Offline)
Comments2
I really like this and i like how you tied it together by making it rhyme.
Thanks! Appreciate the feedback.
This could be a rap song.
Though that maybe detract from the seriousness of the write.
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