morosentity

Check out this sweet poem (if you can even call it that) that I'm writing right now:

A small boy sits on the hem of his mother's pink dress
She isn't moving, he feels perplexed
He wonders why she won't get up off of the kitchen floor
and get him his lunch
like every other day he can recall
the beginnings of worry, an emotion new
to the child, begin to set in
he starts to think of the small orange bottles
that, in the past few weeks since his father,
dressed in a suit fancier than the boy
had ever seen him in,
went into the ground in a black bed with a top,
had collected on her bedside table
spilling off onto the floor, often
and sees an empty one a few feet away
capless
emitting pills, scattered around it
he crawls around to her face
and stares into those deep blue
newly lifeless eyes
and he doesn't know it,
but for our little pal,
it's all downhill from here