Would you ask for something like another chance?
You spend your hours writing the memoir
of that other life you’d hoped to have.
You murdered all the live things you met.
Now you try to resuscitate them
sitting alone in the dark with a pen.
They all stay dead but you keep on writing.
If you value my work, and can afford it, please consider occasionally sending me a buck or two at Paypal. Even poets have to eat. :)