So many sad poems
I just can't read them all,
and once I set about to write
I turn out another.
I try to write about good things,
you know, what I may be happy for?
but the poem's meter churns down,
and the images flow through me
and I write what I am feeling,
I am a voice of pain, sorry.
But isn't there room for another sad poem,
shouldn't we paper the walls with all our grief,
to the constant chimes of 'what's their problem'
'just get over it' and 'what cry babies'?
I can see miss manners walking down the hall of poems,
making little judgmental cooing remarks,
and walking just behind her with a bucket of ice water,
I begin to dump it on her head.
our poems are sad, because our lives are,
if our lives were poems perhaps we could change
by writing a new line, but that's just it,
the lines have all been written,
the poems ended years ago,
and we are their creation. alas.
we were created out of evil,
and the goodness that remains, seems to flicker.
Next time I'll write a different poem,
of how we slay the dragons in our hearts
and how we comfort one another,
warriors of grief,
but today, I just don't see it, sorry.