This is a poem I wrote last night. It's more or less dedicated to the people who committed suicide on the Golden Gate bridge in San Fransisco. tell me what you think of it. by the way, it's a little morbib so beware.
Ridge of Failed Redemption
She stares out of through the glass.
The salt water running down her cheek
The ocean, framed as if in a photo.
Her legs, wobbly and weak.
“What have I done?” said she.
The dame lifted her head to the ceiling.
“God, what about me?”
She looks deep into her reflection.
The shattered image of her former self, “Why?”
Open the door to the shrouded night.
Behind her, his broken body doth lie.
March down the asphalt way.
“If one soul should smile at me, my determination might sway.”
Peering down, the omniscient Moon.
Her thin, black jacket. the separation, the cocoon.
The midnight Sun casts a golden haze throughout the bustling city.
The fools, do not pay heed, it does not matter if you are smart, slow, or pretty.
It’s all the same, once you’re dead.
None shall replace me in my stead.
She ventures the way to the bridge.
The Golden Gate pushed through the turbulent waters, a solemn ridge.
Each step bringing her closer to the inferno, the flame.
Each breath whispering the broken one’s name.
Each one she passed, their faces weary with time.
Someone flip a quarter, someone flip a dime.
“I know my way, I know the fate.”
The One who judges is never late.
From her door, to the top.
There she stood, finally stopped.
The dark clouds obscured the golden disc in the sky.
A separation between her and reality.
The time is draws nigh.
Place one weathered foot on the red steel.
The places it has trodden.
There is no grey between who’s hollow and who’s real.
Each foot now on the crisp surface.
Gaze out to the single land of damp memories.
Even they, who stole, raped, and thieved had a purpose.
Lung to lung, neck to chest.
I know this is the end, it is not a test.
Cross my arms, and tipped over the brink.
“If He saw me now, what would He think?”
The wind whipped past her descending self.
The navy waters speed towards her frightened face.
“I cannot do this, I wish to go back,” thought she, with great hast.
“Allow me to lie in my bed, once more.”
“Allow me to slip back through my door. “
“Allow me to see the face, many a time I have kissed.”
“Allow me to draw back my clenched fist.”
But no, into the boiling liquid, she did hit.
Her eyes, devoid of life, abysmal pit.
Her once whole self was to be found far from where she struck.
Marred with grit and dirty muck.
Ended it all in a single act.
Face, shredded, and skin it did lack.
Did she not know the other ways to appease the guilt?
Not to descend into the frigid waters. or to grab one’s sword by the hilt.
It would appear so, for she now lies dead.
For she will no longer slumber in her rightful bed.
your trying way to hard to rhyme and its coming out forced. scrap it, try something new. and stop with the dark, emo songs. poetry is fine. but dont ever sing it.
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