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November 3, 2005
All Poetry


Dying a little bit more each night

Soon all that will be left is an empty shell and a good idea

Nowhere left to turn to

Like a poker player with one card short of a ROYAL FLUSH

Malnourished from years of holding on

Waiting and waiting, working the cards to see when it will turn up

But the time has come!

To lay the cards on the table

I am one card short of a good idea

Naked and in a weakened state I lie on the table

Squirming in agony like Gollum without his precious

Waiting for the Grim Reaper to come and claim his prize

For his BLADE to pierce my chest

To quite this soul

To put to rest this tortured spirit

To take away those long, lonely, tormented sleepless nights!


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