We Call It Murder, Poem Options

[Sa-Chan]

Haha. I got this idea on cB. Lunchbox replied to one of my other poems and said, "Man, I really get the this is love, this is murder shit going on from this." Sooooooo, I made a poem. XDDD



We Call It Murder
By: Savannah

Walking.
Breathing
Love like a cry.
Everyday I lose my essence,
Every moment we fade.
You noticed a tear in the skin...
Today.
An instant in which you care enough to see,
Years have passed since I first dyed my sleeves,
With blood to relieve myself of sin.
Screaming.
Begging.
Plead till you die.
I slit my wrists every Thursday,
With the serrated edge of your heart.
And everyday I ask myself,
When did your emotions become my own personal...
Knife.
The sad truth is I use you to feel,
But I only feel pain.
Sleeping.
Sadness.
A poison so rich.
I could bleed myself to death,
A sad truth, that it is,
With papercuts from suicide notes,
And love letters I never wrote,
But I promise you I always...
Meant.
And if they existed,
They'd be but paper shreds,
Littering my bedroom floor.
Drowning.
Apathy.
Escape in your dreams,
Vision quickly fades,
Eyelids half-open, half-closed.
Tear me together and sew me apart,
Hold your breathe, close your eyes.
Wait till you choke.
Accept it, and cherish it, everyone...
Dies.
This is war, and we suffer.
This is love,
But we call it murder.




Here's the rough draft of the poem. That I decided after I finished I hated and decided to redo it. Heh...

It was never a fair fight,
And the victory was the type,
That the winner is not only the conqueror,
But also the conquered as well as the,
Mutilated bodies that lay in heaps on the side,
Of every corner and every street.
It was a battle that couldn't be won,
And I'm slitting my wrists with the serrated edge,
Of your with-standing heart.
Not only that, I could bleed myself to death,
With thousands of papercuts,
From suicide notes I never sent,
And love letters I never wrote,
But always meant.
And the air that we have come to share,
Is a noxious, choking poison of the worst kind,
And the fumes will cause the skin to rot,
And mask what we have come to look for,
And make it so that it must forever be sought.
I believe you said the other day,
That you have already found it.
However, I fear that I have not.
Blood pours from wounds that were never open,
And those around me are effected,
By a malady that cannot be healed.
This is love or maybe it's just murder.