The Mail Box Disappointment, shatters at the bone As with other times Agony is destine to grow No longer do I venture Or take the path I've worn On so many journeys But to return sorrow born this As all the others I claim to be my last Fed up I close the shutters On the mail I turn my back You see I reach inside As I do on every day And grasp at only air So hurt and full of pain To see an empty palm And wonder of all the wrongs What could be taking Taking so terribly long.