Will I be laid to rest beneath the ground,
Or will I be in a pretty urn like your aunt you loved.
The woods are lovely dark and deep Robert Frost once wrote.
That's where I want to be.
With the trees and the simplest sounds of birds in the morning rise of the sun.
To have the most elegant wild flowers bloom where I'd be left to rot,
And the rain would wash the pain away.
When I die young lay me with the wildflowers so there's something pretty left behind when my sour attitude leaves this earth.
YOU ARE READING
the depths of my despair
PoetryYin & Yang . The good ,The bad. A balance between the two. This is the dark finding it's light through the depths of despair.
