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Banshee's Journal



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2 entries this month
 

Last Words

15:44 Jun 30 2005
Times Read: 643


This is a poem i found in my old diary, I think I was 14 when i wrote this. That is the first time that i wanted to die...i think



My life is a peace of shit

So I`m leaving it as soon as i can,

The golden needle,a rope,or a bullet trough my head

It does not matter,it`s the same,I`ell be dead,

Now I will peacefully lie on the ground

And will wait for the final moment to come,

I really am glad to leave all this shit

When i think of it,there`s no fear, not even a bit,

My life is a peace of shit,

Before I go I want to tell You all

Do not ever grief over me,

`cos it`s not that bad, not as it could be,

I see my future deep in the ground

In a nice headstone,and the peace that will come

A slow-mo of my life is running trough my mind,

Feels like a lost battle,and You`re the one that`s left behind

My life is a peace of shit

`cos death is just a few breaths away

So my heart will soon stop it`s beat

And there will be no more agony for me...



My life was a peace of shit...




As you can see I didn't`t commit a suicide...or you all are talking to a ghost here...which could be interesting tough...Every time I wanted to end it I would think of one person that would be really hurt by that,and `cos of that person I change my mind...later I found it hard to find that one person, so i changed my policy, now when it comes to it i just think of one person who would be glad to see me dead...and i don`t do it `cos of that one person...

COMMENTS

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Hoanted Rose

14:14 Jun 10 2005
Times Read: 655


You have before You

a beautiful red rose,

Its passion will burn You

and take Your breath away.

But there is a story

beneath her green leaves,

There is a corpse

between those gentile roots.

Watered by tears,

by sorrow, by Pain,

fed on my flesh,

as it drained my remains.

Again there is a story

beneath those bones,

a river of love ran

through those dissolved veins.

You are dancing upon

my scattered bones,

And on my grief

You grew that pretty rose.

But cursed is the flower

that grows from a grave,

And the future of it

is the pain of which it became

COMMENTS

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