Next year will be better, she said,
kicking the gravel across the road
Next year couldn't be any worse
that's for sure.
She fell over and died.
Next year couldn't come now,
and she was fine with it.
Those that found her body
couldn't see the scarring
or understand why her
soul ran out.


I don't know what to call this...it's not exactly a poem. Oh, and don't think I'm depressed. I was just very angry, happened to have a pen in my hand at the moment, and found an outlet for my anger and frustration -- which works much better than mouthing off in response to stupidity. I wouldn't have apologized or written an explanation, but so many family members are reading this now. I didn't want anyone to think I'd gone crazy. Besides, happy poems are so pase. ;)