BEING LATE FOR LIFE

Somehow, somewhere, there’s someone for me,

But not for me, never for me,

Trying my best to open myself,

But being too late in turning myself out,

Hating myself for the mistakes I’ve done,

Crying over the stories that have never begun,

Thinking of reaching my destination,

But just after the train left the station,

 

This emptiness in my heart asking to be filled,

Darkness obliging to murder within,

The sharpness of this blade blinding me,

My veins begging for a taste of it

A kiss of the blade is all I needed,

To end my life, I always indeed did,

But not with the blade this time,

As the rope was calling me, from time to time,

 

There’s an empty chair next to hers,

Can’t remember whose missing rehearse,

The light in the house never felt so dim,

My sister’s cheek just felt so frill,

The kid in the house calling for someone,

A name that could no more answer for once,

That’s when I saw my mother cry,

Hands pounding over me and petrify.