The Box of Forgotten Words
In my attic
there is a box
filled with bad poetry .
cliche heavy love poems
written only to get laid.
and unfinished stories.
stillborn or
never developed completely,
Like the experiments
on the island of Dr. Moreau
There are things in there
that must never get loose.
These things must remain
in the box of forgotten words
Suicide
Looking at the sunset
after hearing the news,
A light that burned so bright
amid the turmoil of the dark.
Never what she wanted to be,
or what she could have been
Finally free of the pain
of being simply mortal,
Proof that money
can't buy happiness.
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