Pessimistic

A girl wishes she were home, but she cannot click her heels because there’s no feeling in her legs, and a girl crying, because she just had an abortion, or no feeling to relish the fact of her abandonment:  

“It hurts! It hurts so badly inside!” she sobs.

“It’ll be okay.” Her mother says to reconcile such an emotion.

            A breeze that passes by with a heartless notion, and a thought, contemplated on two children playing, while their mother tries to keep food in their bellies.

            A heart tired of beating, and a person’s thoughts thinking, because his are too dull. A man’s sedative spirit wonders, while his family waits in the waiting room, thinking:

“He’ll be alright. He’ll be okay. He’ll be fine.” His daughter tries to say.

Incomes the doctor saying, “I think he’s dead.”

            A surprising and idealistic feeling runs up a man’s back when he wonders the graveyard drunk at nights, while he wonders amongst of vile of white, crystalline solutions. He thinks its vodka, or another clear alcoholic beverage to “cleanse” his pallet, but its pardichlorobenzene to keep moths away from the grave silk-made floral arrangement.

            Now he’s dead, and that another man in the hospital bed, too. That teen’s pregnant again, and she might take that child out her own way, and the mother is fed up with these children:

“I’ll put them into a basket, and send them off down the river.”

            Don’t worry, she’s just an exhibitionist looking for a show.