The Past Poem by W.B. Mad

Sunny Sunday mornings.
Spent in overused phrases of love.
Shot down with bullets from past lovers.
Caught in the undertow of memories.
Memories that should be forgotten and never ever remembered.
Little memories shut up in the top of old suicide pills.
All those crazy little thoughts.
Little thoughts that make a man want to hurl himself off a bridge.
Falling down into some unknown darkness.
And as you fall you can catch some hideous glimpse of all past wrongs.
Those little wrongs
shut down
and shot out
like little cannon balls
smoke and all.
Whatever it's just another Sunday morning and I'm still breathing.