by Caroline Prank
Do I have to be good to die young?
Heroics sitting in your stomach, like a suicide pact. How about the few things you live for, you learn to take back. Without losing limbs just to prove you had something worth losing at all.
Hands like grenades, we're pulling all the pins.
Making sparks fly, like suicidal butterflies. Fluttering down to start a scene, with the sense that, for once, this won't wake up, a dream.
It seems all we have is trouble, a constant monologue of
"kill me". A systematic desensitization of the word "please", because begging is enough, when there is light in your eyes, enough to see the blown out pupils in mine.
we've heard it enough; we've heard it too much, that we can't even register its meaning. It's just another feeling, desperation.
We resuscitate our respiration, till comes time for the trepidation of detonation. A dedication to this damn nation. Our perspiration fuels for confrontation. Gone are the days of hesitation.
The damnation is evident, in the state of our affairs,
so if I die now, I can guarantee the last things, these lips will see, will be two lines short of my first prayer.