The Black Hand
There's always that something making you stay.
Looking up a tear drops down,
Another jewel takes it's place upon her crown.
You yell, you fight, you shout and scream,
Is it all worth this ugliness that your life must seem?
Just think about it for one split second,
What would you do if the black hand beckoned?
The thing that pulls you up for another shot,
Stops by and reminds you of the other lot.
You look carefully at this different life
see your reflection and put down the knife.
You get back out and enjoy every day,
you are very privleged in a lucky way.
Everytime it starts again,
Take deep breaths and count to ten.
If only one day the truth be told,
the cycle continues, growing weary and old.
Did you like this poem? Write one of your own!