Who Knows?

                                                             Death is like a
sharp
                                                                       pin
point
                                                             you never know
when it's there.
                                                                   Life is
like a long book the
                                                                  pages keep
turning.
                                                                 People read
my thoughts
                                                                like I read
a story book.
                                                                 My pain is
like a sharp knife
                                                                 stabbed
into my back and the
                                                              blood being
poored out.
                                                              My thoughts
are dead like a
                                                               small child
who can't think easy.
                                                             My mouth poors
out words
                                                            like a street
begger crying out

for help.
                                                               I'm gone like
an empty soal

dying.

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