For the life of me,
I can never make you understand
what I desire you to
comprehend what lurks
inside my mind.

Maybe it is I who do
not understand the meaning
of life in these fragil bones.
Each time I tell you tale
of my own hatred and it
spews out like bile from
each pore.

I hate the memories that
hunt me down till even my
screams of mercy only delight
these fowl fiends.

Each time I cry for you
to help me with my life,
but each time my words are
just a hollow empty echo.
There is no snow when
I stare out in the
Decemeber days and night.

The chill in my spin
is the coldness of an
empty heart that beats
against a hollow rib cage.
Each time I cry out is
each time I want you
to squeeze the trigger.

The night becomes the day,
and days become the months.
Each month becomes a year,
and I hope that old age
and death are in hand
in hand.

I clasp my arms to my
body to find a solid hold,
because in the end I will
be only a memory of a
broken soul.

12/03/2003

Posted on 12/03/2003
Copyright © 2024 Christopher Shin