Why I DiedCan I tell you how I died?Why it rhymes with suicide.Not because, I fell ill.Not because, I swallowed pills. Soon you'll see why I lie still.Not because, I have drowned.Not because of, Russian Roulette'slast round. Deaf words of mine,preach no sound.Not because, the fault of life Not because, the sharpened knife. Real reason, why, tears went dry.Not because, I jumped to fall. Not because, this body I mauled. The more I remember,the harder too recall.The true answer is i'm, alive. But to me, the meaning of suicide:Is that you left me dead inside.
Pure evilPungent is the aroma that leaves us in a comawhisks our dreams into wild firedousing us in the purgeScreaming wild flailing burningAm I malicious? Thou am.Am I sadistic? Thou am.Am I evil? Thou be.Pain because I love youSuffer because I love youMy hopes drowned ago on sandy shoreYet waters be waters, glimmering and pure.
IndigoIndigo:The color of her soul.If you’d ask me, I wouldn’t know.Everyday at 8am, she would come inside my paint shop.Hiding her face with her hand, turning away with a smile showing. And in a pleasant timid tone, she would ask,"One tube, of Indigo"The only color she ever asked for—ever needed really.I found it queer, very weird, but what was worse is when she asked me for her paint brush.I handed it to her, but not in haste, just to see how she would react.She paid me, like anyone else, but unlike everyone else, she tore the bristles one by one from the handle; just humming.Then she asked, “May I have a pair of scissors?”I chuckled inside, was she a wizard? Standing there with what was left of the brush, her wand. Cutting a piece of her locks, she just smiled and left.And every morning, I’d watch her paint. But what was so odd, so very strange; she painted full color pictures...it was insane. Picasso works; it was incredible.But wit