A Poem Poem by Lora Cooley

I'm getting worse and worse
I had a reason but trying to exorcise my demons didn't work
So to try to rid me of the worry
To pure you of wonder for the future
I wrote a poem:
I've been painting things
Increasingly alarmed by the pain
Alive to every cloud up in the sky
Afraid it's going to rain
Lately I've hated me for over playing pain
For always pointing fingers at everyone
But guilty for picking at my scabs like they could never break but they can and they will and I'll spill like a drunk in the choir
Just slur words to make deadbeat that refrain
Self-inflicting my pain picking through the rubble they sang
But what of what I sing?
The worry, the wonder, the replacement for things swept away by
The worry, the wonder, my slightness of frame, replacements for feeling
And the worst
The worry, the wonder, but
Death unimpeded brings that worry and wonder away