My Own Poem by Mark Smith

The clouds erupt with sound and thunder, my heart bleeds with blood and hunger...
The sound of hearbeats, spiked veins and broken ribs...
The taste of copper, and the smell of my aftershave...
The bloodshot eyes of last night drinking- are this mornings hangovers...
The things I do, The things I say, the way I say them, No one may be holding my hand and those that did
have all but let go. No one may be holding my hand But I
Take comfort in holding my own...