Member Poem

I lost count of just how many nights I’ve cried myself to bed.
My own embrace the only arms to hold me while I said:
I can’t make people love me, and I can never make them stay;
And I’ll never know the reasons they always choose to go away,
Or why my needs get met with sorrow, failure and despair...
An ironic joke, the reach for hope, to feel and nothing’s there.