The sun has shone, <br />but my eye does not look at the light. <br />The moon is full so am I. <br />I try not to write. <br />I look at the pinks and blacks. <br />I look at the laughing of the people, <br />everything which but I hear is to labored I shout. <br />I am not that mentally ill, <br />somewhere I am, not so strange, she is. <br />Everything which I feel is not pain. <br />I of whom like you have been gushed from such wrists. <br />If I am that raw juicy oyster full of colored pearls. <br />You rub it. <br />You squeeze it. <br />You taste the salt in it. <br />It runs down your chin. <br />Your tongue. <br />Your lips look at my purple blood. <br />It sits you down within it entirely. <br />Independently in your room for more. <br />I feel like making it congested, as for my part. <br />Everything which is heard there it is. <br />I sleep the sleep of eyes. <br />I dream the dream of your dream of death. <br />The blood is covered with floor. <br />Your panties wrapped around my tight feet. <br />Hiding my toes they are sleek. <br />Parents who were drunk <br />and the boyfriend who almost killed me it whispers. <br />Plunging in, pushing it out, I am afraid I have become. <br />One opposite end of the white hole, <br />from which nothing but more spewing come. <br />And join me I take me in my next to last breath. <br />This is for you, this is for me. <br />It is everything. <br />Which can be used for committing used suicides.<br /><br />Is It Poetry<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/committing-suicide-3/
