There's this guilt
That sits
Like the world's worst ****
In the bottomless pit
Of my stomach, and it
Is making me sick
Like colic, and as
The clock tics
And tocs
That burden rots,
It's spoiling my blood
And clotting my thoughts
And making me think
It was all for nought.
I ought to start reading
These books that I bought,
Though none of those
I've read have said
How to deal with a stranger's
Bed that you wake up in instead
Of the one you shared
With the one you wed,
But my love is now
Three years dead,
And all the girls that
Have stood in her stead
Are like plastic money;
Not worth a cent.
But I can't make sense
Of how to move on,
I just can't believe she's gone,
Why did she have to die?
Why did her heart give out
At just about the best time
Of our entire lives?
Thirty five is far too soon
For a coronary infarction,
Let me tell you.