Here comes the procession.
They march through streets muddied with rain.
They're lead by figures dressed in black.
People look on in fear at their raven masks.

The birth of the daughter was sad,
because there's a sickness that plagues this land.
It feeds on those doomed to a horrible fate.
Though they start out their lives in innocence.

No one knows when it will end,
how does death take one's hand?
Those figures dressed in black take off their masks,
to reveal humans who have been put to task.

But people move on and pretend,
that this plague does not prey upon them.
Only a certain few must suffer the memories,
and they'll question the silence of this land.

Afraid of my writings
As I look back.
Betrayed  by my words
Like an overweight book bag.
I'm so shook that
I took that
To heart.
Torn apart.
Can't restart.
Can't make
The same mistakes.
So I make new ones.

I lock away the pain.
I talk away to stay sane
But deep inside my brain
The curse of my poems remain.

I'm clammy, I'm cold,
I'm weak at the knees
My eyelids are drooping,
Spine tingles and freezes.
My head is pounding,
My heart is, too,
But I know that I am
Not down with the flu.

The curse of the woman,
Monthly revamps
Dehydration, emotions,
Bloating, and cramps.
I want to go home,
I'm not feeling too well.
I watch the clock,
Waiting for the bell.

Living with this
Is like living in hell.