On my desk sits my own obituary, writen in blood.
In my handwriting, I tell the world why I am gone.

It is the blood that killed me. It burned my soul.
It made me search for something that could not be found.

Searching for love.

I thought I'd found it, but I was terribly mistaken.
I can search no longer. I am no more.

This is a poem I wrote when I broke up with my first boyfriend. I was terribly sad, and quite depressed. Even though I was the one who initiated the breakup, I still felt so bad that I wanted to die.

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.