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This Little Game
March 30, 2013
Every night is the same.
My mind likes to play this little game.
The rules are simple really,
I have to hate myself for all eternity.
In the mornin when its all over and done,
What remains is a prize that is no fun,
Scars and red lines made form scratch and cut,
For what reason who knows what?
Every night that's how it goes,
But nobody really knows,
Of all this suffering and pain,
from the game my mind likes to play.
© Dillon O., Pompton Plains, NJ
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