It.

This is a poem I wrote while sitting inside on a raining day. Enjoy my first submission.

June 4, 2007.                                                                              Michael Prates.
                                                        It.




It was just the other day
When it was at my side.
It was always where I lay
Impossible for me to hide.

It was as crafty as a ghost
And had no shape or form.
It used me as its host
For that I could have sworn.

It was not long ago
When it had taken shape.
It gradually began to grow
And wore me as a cape.

It began to devour me
From inside out.
It drained me of vitality
Until I began to shout.

It was at that exact moment
When my lungs tore apart.
It took the very component
That surely was my heart.

It never really went away
Had me agonized and defeated.
It’s with me to this very day
Keeping me eternally depleted.

It spreads upon the weak
And feeds upon their soul.
It remains something tongue-in-cheek
Forever taking its toll.

It was just the other day
When it was at my side.
It was always where I lay
Impossible for me to hide.