A FEW POEMS I WROTE

531a.m.

Your callous hand grips my wounded heart,
squeezing harder and harder.
I am drowning in a pool of blood,
thickening at each word, your word.
You could save me, but you won't;
afraid my blood would taint your soul,
or that it would clean your sins.

Make me a promise and I would have believe
yesterday when I still breathed.
Too late to save this soul.
Too late to make me whole.
Too late to kiss these lips.
Too late to hold this body.

I am too far gone in the Valley of Pain and Sorrow,
too deep in the River of Despair.
I am alone now, and so I shall stay.
The Gate is closed. None but I shall remain
as visitor in the Garden of Past Memoirs.

My very first attempt at poetry-writing:

A drop of tear down a human cheek,
brings warmth to a human heart.
A heart, broken, can not be mend,
but reborn as time expends.
A wave of life through sea of hardships;
love seldom reaches the waiting shore.

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