Crossing
the road
slowlyEver hopeful
of getting
run overLeaving
the oven
door openEver hopeful
of inhaling
the gasDrinking
spirits
every dayEver hopeful
of pickling
the liverEating
salted chips
all nightEver hopeful
of a heart
bypass
"All my life's buried here, heap earth upon it"
Crossing
the road
slowlyEver hopeful
of getting
run overLeaving
the oven
door openEver hopeful
of inhaling
the gasDrinking
spirits
every dayEver hopeful
of pickling
the liverEating
salted chips
all nightEver hopeful
of a heart
bypass
Ramblings Of A Fragile Mind 
it was the gas that did it for Plath – but back then it was a different type of gas – you’d probs just get a bad headache now – so I wouldn’t bother – writing poetry is punishment enough for being alive 😉
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Haha!! So true!! 😂🖤
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It’s a bleak poem but the chips did make a comeback so there’s that too. Well written poem, friend!
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Ahhh! You did find it!! I just hadn’t got to this comment yet! Glad you enjoyed it! 😁🖤
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Well, this little lot should get you into A & E and right now that’s real jeopardy – best keep out of it I’d say!
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Don’t worry, I’m OK. Oven is off, I’ve got no booze left, the chips are all in the bin and I haven’t left the house for hours! 😉🖤
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A tragic mind
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Sometimes, sadly, yes 😔🖤
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I share the sentiment. Part of me is like that.
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I think it’s probably the same as all of us, to a greater or lesser degree 🖤
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I agree
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