Death Made for the Weak
Time is full of value,
But no one seems to care.
Blood is the sign of pain,
As it flows free,
From the body straight on through,
To the ground from each tear,
On the flesh from nothing to gain,
But the sadness causing us to be carefree,
And reckless from the hate.
Tortures of life,
Brings us down,
Into tears of the deep,
Depression felt from the belief of a bad fate.
Bringing down a knife,
Onto themselves as they drown,
In the negativity and the steep,
Fall to pure madness.
The thoughts of death,
Bring those who are weak,
In the mind to their last dream,
For the agonizing sadness,
To stop with their last breath.
They soon break,
Into their deaths which tend to be extreme.
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