tom is dead, he lost his head chopping a log and it fell and then his mother threw a fit and now we're deep in ****.

i will never ever live it down because my company caused toms mom to drown,

the pool was drained with her in it and now i can't sleep because i keep hearing it.

oh that the log had not killed tom

This is definitely the best poem I have seen from you. I think
the postscript helped too. True story, what can one say from
this perspective except I hope you get help and to soldier on.

I do know this though, even though they are different, and some-
times in frequency and severity, sometimes not, but we all have
problems we deal with in life. No one ever told me life would be
fair either.

I count my blessings and hope there is a path where you can as well.

This poem has a big upside for improvment and expanding if you feel
like it, or as is is plenty good.

It is not decent,
Poor form,
No rhyme,
Each line,
Despised,
These words,
Are fake,
Descriptions made,
Anger and sadness,
Joy and fear,
Float over the surface,
Each time,
These thoughts,
Get near,
They s-s-stutter,
Over purpose.

A clever pun,
A gaudy joke,
From time to time,
Will crawl,
From out my ***,
But when,
Upon my knees,
I beg,
The thresh,
Of Keats,
Or Lord of Milton,
Nothing is,
Received,
'Cept the tightening,
Of my veins,
And the wetting,
Of my briefs.

Of greatness,
I am missing,
A child,
Missing before term,
Yet as,
I know,
The dead one,
It is the mother,
As I yearn,
To know what has,
Gone missing,
Which no man,
Of thought can tell,
And to forget,
What does,
Change me,
From the mothers,
Who cannot dwell.