Water dripping
From the rotting cieling.
The crumbling brick from the walls
Only adding to the mess.
When the pills of guilt
Fall down my throat
Will I become silent,
Or will I be screaming for release?
I wait for the numb.
I wait for the cold that is spilling into me.
How could one person do this?
How could on look be sharper than a knife.
I understand history.
But since when is history more important
Than true love?
