Last night
I broke a small glass
Today I find
A glass shard in my pocket
A small glass shard
In my pocket
Waiting for my misery
To come and steal the shard
I am the most depressed
From time to time
I wish my despressions
Would just utterly decline
There are many beautiful things
That lie in my pocket
But that glass shard
Is still lying at the top of it
Waiting to be used
That glass shard in my pocket
Lies still and calm
Like an open socket
And so, here I lay in my hammock
With the small shard swinging back and forth
In my pocket
How come a little thing
Could be so enamored with poetics
And my tempers genetics.
Of a beautiful deadly little thing
Waiting.