The Good Die Young Poem by Robin Bennett

My windows might as well
have iron bars.
I'm trapped inside, courtesy
of my own pain. I swallowed
the key months ago.

Creeping noises in the night-
go un-noticed know. A figure
in the dark corner howling
her high pitched cries; stirs
no one.

Just another entry on a
to do list. Pick up
pills, so I can
function somewhat.
I've grown accustomed
to being lonely.
I feel safest
there.

Trapped in a
dying cocoon.
Away from peeping
eyes. Especially
from that odd
child named
Tom next door.

They say only the good
die young. What in
the hell am I
still doing here?