The prison I’m held in, seated and still,
Upon my wheelchair,
But it’s so comfortable,
I can’t be bothered to move.

Looking out of the windows near,
Everything seems so desolate and queer,
Leaves falling and crushing into the ground,
By their own weight, like me, spiralling down.

I’m just too lazy,
To look for my suicide.
It’s coming to me anyway,
With the fake, pale smiles.

The arms I have hurt from broken veins,
Hiding snakes with pierced holes.
The eyes I have sting from lack of sleep,
And here comes my suicide.

She’s dressed in white and
Adorned in small mouth movements.
I can’t listen, I don’t want to,
She breaks the snakes again, and again.

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