Clouds poetry

It bit him on the behind

Old man fifty eight years of age
Roams Around in his house
Boards they creek under his weight
Silence they whisper, they gossip
Melancholy swallows him up like
a whale getting caught food in its
Mouth.
Madness drives him to the edge wanting
To drive him to the edge of his own funeral
His own death, wish full his grave
A cigar in his mouth hoping it I'll take some
Pain some ill diseases he doesn't have away
Bourbon in a glass he takes a gulp burning his
Throat that'll have to work for now
"Karma, never dose anyone any good". They say.
Broken the good woman heart driven his family
Far away didn't needed them he thought
Now poor him wants to replace that word, needed with-
N e e d.
-ashes poetry