I Write Poetry
The raven is flying,
black as night.
It’s following like
a shadowy kite.
Often times
it strays behind.
When it’s out of sight,
it’s out of mind.
But then it returns,
soaring overhead,
making one feel
left for dead.
It circles around,
slowly closing in,
finally to dive,
its beak like a pin.
It pierces the thoughts
and blocks out joy.
It hardens the heart
with a sickening ploy.
It eventually takes you
under its wing.
It teaches and shows you
terrible things.
It pecks at you
until you've had it
but then it leaves.
That’s its habit.
When you finally begin
to feel happy once more,
the raven comes back
because your joy, it deplores.
black as night.
It’s following like
a shadowy kite.
Often times
it strays behind.
When it’s out of sight,
it’s out of mind.
But then it returns,
soaring overhead,
making one feel
left for dead.
It circles around,
slowly closing in,
finally to dive,
its beak like a pin.
It pierces the thoughts
and blocks out joy.
It hardens the heart
with a sickening ploy.
It eventually takes you
under its wing.
It teaches and shows you
terrible things.
It pecks at you
until you've had it
but then it leaves.
That’s its habit.
When you finally begin
to feel happy once more,
the raven comes back
because your joy, it deplores.
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