Nothing Special

A Poem by kenny

The death of a conscience
despite all of the suspense,
is a rather quiet event.
One of ruthless intent,
and painful to follow through,
but I did it for you.
Every day that passes me by,
does little to aid my mind.
Blood is all that fills my thoughts,
anything else is simply like a clot,
slowing me down and adding to the pressure within,
its only a matter of time before it begins.