This poem is specifically about my older brother, John. But this poem can be universal as well obviously.
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The color white:
Innocent,
Pure.
A beautiful thing,
Some may ensure.
But white can also
Represent death,
As you sit there with line after line,
Breath after breath.
And now the sweat runs
Down your face…
Here comes the high.
Here comes the race…
But one day
You’re going to lose control.
And when you finally hurt yourself
Will the truth unroll?
2009 Vincent Cuccolo
