A Brief History Of Pain Poem by Stan Petrovich

One cell cringing
in commotion;
Sauropods succumbing
to gravity,
protecting doomed offspring;
The King of all Writers,
fishing in guts for plays,
dying unknown;
Then you, hobnobbing,
howling in torture
for things I cannot
or will not
do.

My shell is cracked;
I am here alone in a world
of grief. But I ply,
for though the pain is overwhelming,
in the end it is brief.
Breaking a plastic pen in two
is too difficult
to separate from the field of pain.
And too neat.