A Suicide Note Hits Sharp

Dark days in the autumn stir hearts to thoughts deep and fell
Actions of the witch break the soul and hammer it without care
A book of poetry this is wrote of what is wrought
When a man's core is plundered and his trials are for naught

Chill winds blow through the ever skeletal trees
A sound waited for that brings those who hear to knees
Read within the woes and thoughts most feared
If you be of stouter stuff than a pansy has reared

Do not fear for the words cannot destroy
Though they may strike a cord within any girl or boy
Never good to call up demons like a toy
Unless you have sterner armor made of the best kind of alloy

What lays within is just a soul laid to breast
A man facing trials and too many a test
An occasion peak of light and the lightest jest
It's just my poetry nothing more, nothing less