Why?

Found this old poem in my journal. Thought I'd like to upload it.

Whispering to me,

Through a closed door.

I'm crying out back,

Violently holding the handle.

 

The wind and sun,

Pour through my window.

Scratching and tickling my neck.

 

A tree's shadow cast to and fro,

Disrupts me from the warm glow. 

 

It's the left hand holding the door,

That's the devil's hand to be sure.

The right grasps the handle,

Wishing so desperately to turn it.

 

It fears the devil's action,

Should he be allowed to roam free.

Securing myself in sleep's tomb,

 I refuse to leave him be.

 

My resolve is strong,

My will stronger still.

Filled with power,

Drenched in my iron will.

 

 

And thus I lament myself,

 For indulging in such feelings.

This bitter sorrow,

It's unfounded and confounding.

 

 

But it's in my blood,

Passed down from my mother.

A result of my dead brother,

And her own awful mother.

 

She is lovely,

And as caring as one can be.

Though she is medicated,

Perhaps the same is needed for me.

Reviews

[Stan Lee]

Hmmm, this brings back memories. Rhyming and flow - spot on.
I love the raw honesty in this poem. The imagery is great and it really gives the reader a feeling of insight. Very real. Very great.