Two weeks ago, I posted the last edition in my 'hist-oetry' series. In that post, I invited interested individuals to pick a number before I destroyed the physical manifestations of the poetry forever. The destruction is done, and thi is the one last poem from the collection I found in that suitcase.
I've shredded everything now! But there's one final thing to do: This is poem number 177, as requested by
Need a Hand?
This life is too much of a demand
Why do I endure life, it isn't grand
But when I need to hold on to a hand
There is no one will stand[sic]
Up beside me and think the way I do,
And like a movie, right on cue,
Here comes the big climax
At the end, when the body bags look like sacks
That should hold potatoes instead of bones
That should have not been hosed
With the blood of so many innocents
But it only happens when there are incidents
Losing my train of thought,
I don't know what has bough
Me back to these depressive
Thoughts that are so obsessive.
An abrupt end!
I have now shredded the originals. They're gone. A past chapter of my creative life; now destroyed in material form, to live on in the Steemit blockchain.
What should I pull out next? There's creative writing, some black and white photography from university, and probably some interesting essays.
