When Death Becomes Pretty

The longer I close my eyes,
the more I see the silver dots.
I feel transported to a world where
the only person is me, the only sound
I hear is my own heavy breathing.

Where pain resides outside,
where fantasy becomes like real,
where hatred collides on a wall and
shatters into nothing.

When time reminds me how long
I have been in a chasm of darkness.
When each morning is missed.
When a breakdown is not felt.
When death becomes pretty and
all these things are just temporary.

I triumphed in waking.
The world around me is tangible.
How I struggled to escape the hell
I have been, I did not give in to the
eternal desperation.



About chester maynes

poet, and a lover of music and books.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to When Death Becomes Pretty

  1. Pingback: When Death Becomes Pretty — chester maynes – Dwells Journey

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