the sorrow of my life,
grows like the seeds,
that are planted in the garden,
they start of small,
but overtime they overwhelm,
and conquer my thoughts.
they waters of desire
give them life to grow,
the sunlight of depression,
gives them darkness to dye,
my soul the colour black,
the rotten fruit they grow,
taste as foul as the scent,
of death from the cemetery,
my life is just a novel,
written by the pen of sorrow,
each line of ink,
is just another why I think.
of how my life could be better,
but only leads to my cheeks being wetter,
because I am that of no point,
and all I do is disappoint,
what I wish I would not,
making me dream of my plot,
in which my body will lay,
all the rest of my days.