for the bullets for his father’s twenty-two. The pounding on the door grew louder and the chants of “queer” permeated the neighborhood. His dad was dead but his lessons rattled around in Harry’s mind. He could never stop hearing that word uttered with disgust from his dad and now it seemed everyone was saying it. A trip to the small town grocery or getting fuel at the gas station, everywhere. He was tired of all of it, tired of never feeling good enough, never accepted for who he really was. Harry loaded the gun like he was taught and ended his life.
Harry gulped. He’d sold his soul
His heart adorned a bullet hole
Pounded. Grounded. He did his best
To quell the pain inside his chest
And as he reached that final breath
He contemplated living death
I am just fine, but not much to say (of worth). I did write another (very ordinary) NYC Midnight Competition story – I probably should post that (because everyone is always so politely uncritical).
The Bag Lady 
Poor guy! This story could be all too real!
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Does this count?
Harry gulped. He’d sold his soul
His heart adorned a bullet hole
Pounded. Grounded. He did his best
To quell the pain inside his chest
And as he reached that final breath
He contemplated living death
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Not up to me but your poem is sadly relevant
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Perhaps I should apologise to you, then
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No. Meant it’s sad it’s so often true
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Inappropriately put?
I’ve shot myself right in the foot?
I’d hate to look bad in your eyes
My Lady, I apologise.
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Not at all. I meant I don’t put the rules on prompts. If I did they would be easier to follow😂
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How are you btw? I don’t see you here enough😀
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I am just fine, but not much to say (of worth). I did write another (very ordinary) NYC Midnight Competition story – I probably should post that (because everyone is always so politely uncritical).
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😀
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