My Bag

Everything that I ever had was placed in a bag- 
And carried over my shoulder with a stick as it drags. 
I'm walking down the road remembering the days of old- 
Reflections that tire my soul with a burdensome load. 
I've often hoped a killer came to take away my pain- 
Beautiful bullet through my brain explosion of my veins. 
When I was seventeen I knew I had trouble ahead- 
I should have turned my clothing red but kept suffering instead. 
Two voices wrestle in my head one says to end it all, 
The other says the same I wish there was someone to call. 
I used to daydream of a woman I could love and trust, 
But I grew up and saw without money I'm not enough. 
I wonder will I forever be stuck or shake a loose. 
My cousin asked himself the same now he's dead its the truth. 
If I don't find a happy home I don't want to survive. 
When I finally get to heaven's when I'll come alive.

Author's Note

Please comment on this poem!

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

Your lines evoke feelings of hopelessness with a lack of future. "If I don't find a happy home I don't want to survive". I've always considered home is where the heart is, so without that sense of belonging and love, life would suck. You express yourself well and get through to this reader.

Chris

[1 Deep]

thank you for the honest review, it is appreciated

[Han'ke]

Slight grammatical error 😉 A very sad, hopeless theme. I agree with Chris, that you express yourself really well. Societies expectations (regarding money and other stuff) sucks 😝

[1 Deep]

thank you for the honest review it is appreciated