by: Francesca Thrash
As I sit amongst my wicked thoughts,
An absent hand begins,
To play a mournful violin,
And recount all my sins,
It taunts me and it tortures me,
And says that I can't hide,
It tries to reprimand me,
And it laughs at how I've tried,
It says that I'm not good enough,
Or worthy to survive,
It sneers and questions mockingly,
"What's your reason to be alive?"
And as suddenly as it had come,
It was gone without trace,
And the only thing it left behind,
Was the sorrow on my face.
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