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This was for a contest were the object was to write a poem about suicide. |
It was made of tangled bed sheets It was made of the breath of her life And it starts at the end Because every other tale began at the beginning And she never did anything the usual way And she’d leave just as she entered Swinging on a pendulum And was caught by the irony Of a wasted life And then the darkness came And she remembered The day she came home It was made of the breath of her youth And nobody ever came home again Because in the kitchen was a secret And she must never ever tell About the way it pooled red Like rivulets of sinister ire And the way she cried As if the world had died And of course in a way it had The night she went out It was made of the breath of her maturity And she knew they didn’t love her But she didn’t care and deeply cared And they used her up And they broke her down Like a paper cup The styrofoam peeling And she said it was better this way She knew it should never be this way And then she cried As if the world had died And of course in a way it had The morning she stayed in It was made of the breath of her life And it was her life And she’d leave just as she entered Swinging on a pendulum And was caught by the irony Of a wasted life And then the darkness came And she remembered |