This is not a goth poem.
I will not
whine about the darkness bleakness blackness of my
little tiny heart. Or the swirling vortex.
Or hell's choirs. Oh, my depression, my depression.
This is not a goth poem.
I will not talk about
the blood staining the hands of our forefathers or
hearts that beat outside of the body
electric anger and ripping and claws.
This is not a goth poem, because
I am not thirteen, and some
skanky skinny little thing with black makeup
has not dumped me for my best friend.
And really wouldn't you rather read about
Roses, or
life,
Or
fresh strawberries?