?

 

?

 

 

 

There is no title for many things that I’ll say,

Life is the one thing suitable but that too is enough said.

I ponder all I have done and realize I have done sufficiently bad,

I have seen less idiocy in people gone mad.

Yet to describe my life as such,

I truly cannot,

For I would become lesser, a little less than must.

And so I pretend ignorance, I pretend I can’t see the folly of my dalliance.

But despair sits here,

It calls for no action.

It calls for neither content nor satisfaction.

 

And try as I must I cannot fester the spirit that was once well.

I can only hold on to what now is left.

 

And that drop as eager as it may be to hope.

Can do nothing while within this vessel lies this gaping hole.

Reviews

[Constance]

This is profound, the thoughts you let pour out here. I'm glad you reviewed my piece so that I knew you were here and could come to read this.