My pathetic attempt at trying to be poetic

~My Pathetic Attempt at Trying to be Poetic~

You know if I start, I won't be able to stop,
I've tried writing this a hundred, hundred times and now I'm short ten grand,
This is going to be my pathetic attempt at trying to being poetic.
Once, I couldn't feel a thing, quite numb really and this was before I got hooked on morphine, before I even considered heroin but I've always loved my cocaine.
Red, blue, violet and green, white as well,
Before it was just grey, nothing was right,
Until you walked into my life, and there was light, it was burning, like how a cigarette burns and I smoked it down to the filter, swirling smoke dancing until the floor was charred black and I had to give into the temptation of a cough,
But I didn't stop.
It's never enough.
Red, blue, violet and green, white lines, stained silver razor blade,
Nothing is right! Nothing is right!!!
I'm sad or should I say, blue like the morning sky?
Sigh, but that's not quite the rhyme, wrong placement, wrong time!
Red, blue, violet, and green, white too!
This is my pathetic attempt at trying to be poetic.
I watch the morning sun rise, makes the cool night white hot, blanket it's greatness,
My home is a desert, my house is bitter cold, the furnace is warm,
Controller gripped in my hand, my favorite sad song on my Bluetooth speaker.
Whiskey for two, just for you, orange soda for me,
Video games, stupid things that I enjoy cause the times spent, spending it with you,
Red, blue, violet, and green, white too!
These are the colors I feel when I think about you, these are the colors I began to see, not just a muddled out grey,
Not just a prepared reaction, I felt it, in my heart I never knew I had until I met I you,
You've changed my life, my future, my fate so much, if only I could've done the same,
They say I'm a dreamer and I guess I am in way over my head.
Red, blue, violet and green, tears line my cheeks, frozen in the moment, white flashes,
The razor blade is stained.
Body's fallen to the floor.
He's here but he's not with me, where did you go?
The razor blade is stained.
I don't... Know what to say?
You've devastated me, I felt my heart hit like a spear right through my chest,
Hurts in my soul, the feeling is ethereal, indescribable, he's gone away, I can't hear his voice anymore,
The razor blade is stained.
Red blue violet and green, white lines on the bathroom counter next to the sink, I refused to see.
The razor blade is stained.
This is my pathetic attempt at trying to be poetic, but I think I'm losing my mind now,
I know I'm really sad but I don't feel sad because I'm still in shock from the spear lodged deep in my hearts crater.
It's a scar of the soul, I still feel it when I think about that day I fell to my knees in my tile floored living room,
I wailed like a banshee but none came to rescue me,
Helpless, alone, lost with loss, the razor blade is stained and I can't handle box cutters anymore without getting anxious.
Red blue violet and green, these are the colors I no longer see,
White and black come together to make grey/gray, the million shades of my reality.
The razor blade is stained but I can't see the colors of the splatter anymore so I pretend it's nothing but a stain, easily washed away.
Black, white, grey or gray?
The razor blade was stained with a sickening shade of sugar raisins,
The blood was dried, a drape of gray concealing the vicious tip of the top,
The wounds were black, deeper than my eyes could perceive, deep enough to know there's no going back,
The ringing in my ears was white in light of the circumstances,
Robbed of my Beloved, my muse, my mentor, my friend, my senpai from way back when.
I didn't hear what they said but knew the words,
He was dead.
If it was an accident I would've hated the uncertainty of probability for all eternity.
If it was a murder, than I would've returned the favor tenfold, a million times more.
If it was sickness than I would've found a cure.
But it was a suicide.
I couldn't blame a monster in the middle of the night.
I couldn't blame cancer like the last time.
I couldn't blame probability nor uncertainty, because you took your fate in your own hands.
And I know that's all that'll be remembered now.
Not the grand man that breathed strongly.
Not the scholar of a thousand stars.
Not the best boyfriend I'd ever have, my husband never to be.
But a tragedy.
And it is.
But it's not tragic.
He took his fate into his own hands.
And I should be fine with it.
And I tell myself that I am.
And I even tell everyone else.
But it's a lie.
I'm not fine.
The razor is blade is stained.
And I wish you would've just stuck the blade in me.
It would've been less painful.
Red.
Blue.
Violet.
Green.
These are the colors I remember seeing.
Grey or gray?
Depending on country of origin.
Black.
White.
This is all I'm left with.
Hear me as I write.
I'm a writer. I'm an artist.
The razor blade is stained.
And from that, inspiration came.
Thank you, this was my pathetic attempt at trying to be poetic.

(I hope you liked it.)

~Finn D'Amore.