Depressed Souls.

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Long poem. Talks about suicide. Readers’ discretion is advised.

Your life is a train where you’ll stop at different platforms.
You’re not the one driving it, but the conductor.
You don’t have a control of where it’s going.
You can only control the people who can get in.

Some might enter with the ticket.
Some might come without it.
Some might come barging.
Some might just look from the outside.

Few might destroy the seats.
Few might help you fix the seats.
Few might not do anything.
Few might give you tools for the fix.

The train will stop at different platforms
But you’re not allowed to step out of it.
If you do, then you can never get back into the train.
The train won’t wait for you.
If you do decide to get back in,
The particular platform that you stepped on,
Will give you a stamp saying that you’ve been there before.

This stamp is marked mainly
On your wrists, neck, guts etc.
These are only the visible ones.
The stamps in your mind are way worse.

The scars leave you baffled.
Why did I do this?
Why didn’t I die?
Why am I back?
I want to go back to platform Death!
Little did you know, death wasn’t ready for you.
Cause they don’t want a bad bitch like you.
So, go ahead and be the bitch you were meant to be.
Creat havoc in your nightmares
And leash those demons and be their tamer.

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