All I Feel

You might say this is a self portrait of me. An inner depiction of what I am. Don't be confused of what you read, but sometimes you must learn to look beyond the words. For this is my soul.

All of my poems,

are dark and moody,

is that my solitary duty,

if this is the way to the end.

 

To sulk and whine,

is what is left behind,

of all this complaining,

that I do in my time.

 

For I am a sad person,

with much to say,

but is there any other way,

to suit my day.

 

A life-long obsession,

and longtime seen,

for this is the time,

to be truly mean.

 

Can I help the way I am,

a life of depression,

and one of oppression,

can I start with one of those sessions.

 

All I feel,

is the hatred from my brain,

which is slowly and surely,

is driving me insane.

 

For compassion,

drives me to write,

and my pain gives me the right,

to sound out all my fright.

 

I cannot help,

the way I am,

just to be sane,

is totally insane.

 

My life of leisure,

is not in the cards,

but one of pleasure,

is far from my heart.

 

Do what you must,

to throw me under the bus,

to wind up thus,

and to be dust.

 

For life is too painful,

to live this way,

maybe insanity is the route,

that I must take.

 

With no more cares in my life,

and no more pain,

to be totally free to be me.,

and totally insane.

 

But who will read the work,

that will come,

surely they will not let me write it,

for some.

 

And that is the dilemma,

that I must deal,

to live a life I must feel,

surely this is a rotten deal.