by Geren Lowery
I look out of my window,
at the clouds in the sky.
They loom overhead like a dead body.
Cold and Gray.
My abysmal mind sees so much beauty.
Maybe I should be more concerned,
about the rage which inside burns.
Suddenly, I punch through the window,
shreds of glass rip my skin.
Blood pours down my arm,
and onto the ground it lands.
In this blood I see beauty.
What could come from so much pain,
a red drop,
but deep within this crimson tear,
is the end of all my fear.
Conscientiously, I stare.
This blood stems from one place,
It comes from the veins,
of my rapidly intrepid body.