Born backwards, blue, and dead
I beat the dreaded embalmer
and returned to this life again,
as if t’was death who took pity
and place me on my mother’s chest.
Yet, that would not be my last
turn taken with the reaper’s will,
as baby my lungs were so wet
I spent the better part of youth
gasping for breath and hoping soon
the reaper would remove his boot
or take pity and remove me
from the feel of helpless broken whoops.
In exclamation, when I whooped
that Gothic costume wearing oaf,
I took up such habits as smoke
and drink to make me think he might
still be hovering above me
waiting for that one perfect chance.
This is a poem about surviving though the odds. I hope you enjoy this and all of my poetry that you might happened to read. Comments are always welcome. If you enjoyed this and would consider it, remember to subscribe. I am now adding spoken word poetry recordings to all of my poems, so there is another way to experience my poetry. Thanks for stopping by.
