The Purge Poem by Pasquale DiMeola

To cleanse the mind of hatred's raging pain
Embedded like a common tick
Blood-letting out the bad so good remains
A crusted scab swelled up too quick

Not everyone is geared to be a saint
Lord knows my faults confirm the worse
My nature wouldn't let Lazarus faint
I built a well for those who thirst

The good...the bad, inside me rages on
As Satan grins beyond the smoke
Yet there's an angel in me I can't con
Life's comedy without a joke.