This is the darkest poem I have ever written, or ever will write. I was going through probably the worst time of my life, and I am pretty sure I needed therapy, but at the time I didn’t know it. The only reason I am posting this now is to show how poetry can be therapy when you need to communicate.
The sun did not come up that day,
no more would it be seen;
The sky was hateful, April eighth,
four score and seventeen.
For on that day a noise was heard,
the end was close at hand;
The ground had started opening,
and demons filled the land.
The screaming people tried to run,
to escape the hate and sin;
But every time they looked behind,
they saw Satan’s evil grin.
There are no short cuts anymore,
the easy streets are blocked;
The shadows are the only path,
knifes out and hammers cocked.
They looked into the sky’s above,
and hoped to see the light;
But it was far to late for that,
for smoke had filled the night.
The bridges were burned long, long ago,
there can be no return;
The Piper is here to collect his due,
and it’s a lot more than you earn.