I wrote a poem to choke my sorrow.
Like a blot of gauze to staunch the blood flow.
Drops of blood drop and drip between my toes,
from wound that punctured lung like jagged bone,
pumping life, staining rug like jelly toast.
I opened my hands,
"Let the hope I had be free!"
Hope has yet to leave.
I wrote a poem to lift up my soul,
but instead it eased me into this hole.
For life is just to hard to try, we grow...
But our bones like weeds grow through ash and snow.
We grow, but growth is not a sign of hope.
Satire I say,
This was my attempt at jokes.
well... at least i tried.