He spent his life in factorys Worked his fingers to the bone Fifty years have come and gone Now retired he stays at home. A family he provided for Now the children they have grown They have all moved on and fled the nest They've got to make it on there own. He looks around at all four walls And he wonders just were he is going So he thinks about this thing called life And writes about it in a poem.
He may like writing poems about life But he drives his wife crazy being under Her feet and not washing his cups after use.
Smooth, silky hair tied in a high ponytail Clear lip gloss Fingernails painted pale pink The perfect girl next door Pastel cardigans and sweaters were her thing
Waking up with red, swollen, puffy eyes Staring at her reflection in the mirror for hours And reappearing fresh cuts on her wrist Yet no one knew the blackness growing darker in her
What's done is done No way to go back in time A little attention would've been sufficient to stop it But to be fair She got it in the end As her body laid on the ground With blood gushing out of her hand