(This isn't really a sad poem but it's a little dark, I wrote it for my L.A. class as a small project on an excerpt from a story I believe is called The Lottery. I couldn't get this out of my head and I really wanted to publish it, enjoy!)

Stones litter grass and sticky mud
Grass is stained and dieing 
A wall is dented and punchured
Stones are crumbling to dust

The sky, tinted rose 
The ground, reddened black
A black box
Standing on a darker stool

A piece of paper
Flutters in the wind
Creased, bent, and wrinkled
yellowing and fading from years
Its edges curling from being held
By fingers and sweaty palms
In the center the paper holds
A greying black dot

A thun stack of paper lays 
On top the black box
The papers changing from yellow to white
Names writen in dark red
Are turning a rose pink
Names scribbled or cut
Are no longer read
Ink still fresh 
Blackens a fading name
Mrs. Tessie Hutchinson

And there she lays
Not yet picked up
Still laying in the worn, faded grass
Stained black with her drying blood
There laid
The lucky lottery winner