20/1/2020
I am close I am near the shaky sounds of death I hear, his raspy voice his chilling groan I can feel it's presence from inside my home.
I Hear his feet upon the floor boards as they creek
As he creeps down the hall I shall not run I shall not brawl
I lay and wait for thee to take, to reap my soul to cut my flesh for he is the spirit they call death.
I have been bad I have been good But all that matter is the spirit in the hood. For he is Judge he is jury and execute he will surely.
He cuts the flesh he takes what's his he uses the blood to check his crinkled list.
In the end he is coming he holds our fate there's just no running for in his hands he holds up his weapon HE CUTS THE HEADS off of the rotten.
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Poetry of a foster kid
PoetryThis is a collection of poetry I made from ages 15 to 17 it's about mental health and growing up the last few years in foster care it's a journey about maturing as a kid but also learning to grow and deal with my demons in the on going battle of eve...
