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.