Arts + Scene » Poetry




Torn apart and pushed away,
I die a little with each new day.

Trying so hard to make the right choice,
I call out for help but none hear my voice.

I fill my body with chemicals on my own accord,
Spinning off money I cannot afford.

But that's not the worst part because when I am High,
the answers I seek keep on passing me by.

I wish I could free my head from this cloud,
So I can think clearly, stand tall and be proud.

In every creature that god ever made,
Lies inner beauty no scholar can grade.

The path I am on ends in a pine box
Maybe then I won't fiend for more rocks.

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