A poem in my pocket,
I carry it around throughout April,
Hoping my friends would try it before they knock it.
It was dark and slightly grotesque
Since it spoke of an empty chest.
A living, rotting person who ate their own heart
Saying it’s their mirror
And where they would start.
This poem in my pocket,
Helped me see clearer
As I struggled to find myself
Within a future growing nearer.
I’m going to keep fighting
To fill up my bookshelf
With stories I’ve mapped out
And those that came uninviting.
My legacy will transcend
Beyond even what I can comprehend
With this poem in my pocket.