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