A Piece Of Old Poetry

I’ve been trying to find my lyrics and poetry lately. So far, I’ve had no luck on the lyrics front, but I thought I’d throw another piece of old poetry at you lovely people and see what you think of it. This was probably written about two years ago or more so I apologise if it isn’t quite up to my usual standard and appreciate your reading of it.

Living Isn’t Being Alive…

Rebecca Clare Smith   2008

You thought you were dead.
Didn’t realise, ’til they shot you in the head
That living isn’t really life
That bloodshed is a willing wife.

When your soul is breaking
The sun still smiles,
When your heart is flaking
From all those trials.

And it’s a cold world
When wrapped inside, snow keeps you furled,
Calling to the icy tide
To take you out for one last ride.

And you try to plead
And you try to beg
But pain was freed
And hope left dead.

But bloodshed is a willing wife
She keeps you still, while she holds the knife.
So she cuts the line;
Your blood spills like wine-

But how’d you know if you’re dead
When living isn’t being alive.
When everything your mother said
Was when life did not deprive-

But bloodshed is a willing wife
She stabs you ’til your blood is rife
Dripping off the pantry knife
Spelling out the end of ‘life’.

Her heart is lead
Her eyes are black
She wants you dead
So have a heart attack.

You thought you were already dead
‘Til they shot you in the head
And made you see, for the first time,
Where before your sight was filled with grime,
That living isn’t being alive.

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