Ink encased fingers.
Balding slowly don’t tug hair,
5-7-5, death--
warmed over,
But don’t you fret, your life
Isn’t over yet.
There’s other forms,
Of written suicide that
You don’t really know.
But just you wait and
That pesky teacher will do
her mumbo-jumbo
And soon you will be
Just like some of us, informed
And a ticking bomb.
Tick. Tock.
-------BOOM.
Spoiler
-/- This should not be confused for a serious poem, it's just something I wrote during a moment of frustration.

