A box full of poems

Sorrow

Sorrow

There my organ lies,

waiting,

to be served on a plate,

full of hot pepper and spice,

foods that you think seem nice.

You chopped me up,

slowly,gently,

handling it with care.

The sharp steel pushed through it,

blood bursting,veins spilling.

I screamed in agony,pain,

I am not worthy of your living.

You threw me into the hot oil,blisters form,

full of sickly diseases.It bursts,one by one,

engulfed in the sorrow of the peasants.

You took my cooked organ,

served it on a hot platter,

don't I matter?

Into the room I go,

heart served,yet filled with sorrow.