Wasted Lives
May 17, 2021
The death of innocence comes
When adults slowly kill themselves.
Our battles are not done when we leave,
They just move to the next of kin.
Alcoholism is the slowest form of suicide,
Diving headfirst into the noose made just for you.
A spiral downwards into the empty void
Where the Reaper waits saddened.
Hollow hearts in cavernous chests
Are built at the epicenter, you.
The bottom of each depleted glass
Is a rock bottom you won’t suffer.
Head held high,
We march on.
Hopeful not to take over tendencies
Of the wasted lives that came before.
