A Poem

Third time writing you a letter, getting darker
I'm getting worse and worse
I had a reason for the writing
But trying to exorcise my demons didn't work
To try to rid me of
The worry and to purge you out of wonder
For the future and the hurt
I wrote a poem
I'm increasingly aware I've been painting things in gray
I'm increasingly alarmed by the pain
I'm increasingly alive to every cloud up in the sky
I'm increasingly afraid it's going to rain
See, lately I've hated me for over-playing pain
For always pointing fingers out at everyone but
Who in fact is guilty and for picking at my scabs
Like they could never break but they can and
They will and I'll spill like a leak in the basement
A drunk in the night choir, just slur all those
Words to make deadbeat that sweet old refrain
Self-inflicting my pain and therein lies the real
Shame, I heard when they were picking through the rubble finding limbs
They sang hymns, but Now what of what I sing
The worry, the wonder, the shortness of days
The replacement for purpose
The things swept away by
The worry, the wonder, my slightness of frame
The replacements for feeling
The casual lay. And
The worst of the wildlife wears clothes and can pray and
The worry, the wonder, for three meals a day
Only death unimpeded, not slowing it's pace
Brings that petty, old worry and wonder away