Mechanical breath
From a wheezy machine
Wards of death
From lungs unclean
Medicated sleep
Too many tasty pills
All you’ll reap
Is new forms of ill
Sharpened edge on wrist
To make the veins flow
When you’ve had enough of this
Not the way to go
More tomorrow...
(To anyone worried, this is an old poem not indicative of current feelings.)
No comments:
Post a Comment