A poem for death

Pocketful Of Dreams

Not so long ago

In a land closer than it seems

There lived a silly little girl

With a pocketful of dreams

She was as hated as was loved

It didn't matter what she'd done

But the one thing that she knew

Was that she hurt everyone

Too fat and too ugly

Too judgmental and a fool

She could never just be perfect

And society was cruel

It carried on for years

And nobody could decide

Whether this silly little girl

Should get to live or die

So the leader told his people

That something must be done

And the poor thing should be dealt with

So it couldn't hurt anyone

At first there was denial

But the number quickly bloated

Soon even the voice of mother

Left the situation quite outvoted

But when asked ''who would do it?''

As the people shouted blame

Not a single one would volunteer

And hung their heads in shame

A tiny voice right from the back

Suppressed by a nation's shouts

Announced that she could do it

No longer harbouring any doubts

Every single citizen watched

As a blade was drawn with care

The girl aligned it to the heart

To breathe she didn't dare

Instantly her dull eyes closed

A single push was done

Hushed whispers silenced throughout the land

Watching her smiling tear drops run

When mother found her in the morn

Dried tears still on her face

She knew with greatest certainty

She was not in a better place

How hopeless she was lying there

With blood on the bedroom floor

The only thing to take comfort in

They couldn't hurt her anymore

Mother watched the coffin

Now the girl was quite stone dead

Such a pity, society sighed

That the land was within her head.

Take heed of this done story

For the many who ruin themselves

Though words might seem so innocent

Our worst critics are ourselves