The road to Hell
is lined with nodding heads,
eyes rattling in spaces
where cognizant thought should be.
The feet that pass through
do not burn, held up by souls
they stole, oppressed and screaming.
Good intentions be damned;
someone had to twist the truth
for the lighthearted to be here.
But I'm digging my way there
with nothing but tears and spade
not because I deserve it,
but because as an advocate
I know where I belong.
I do not singe,
only wallow and revel
in eventual fleshlessness.
Where the pen runs dry
and the words are gone.
YOU ARE READING
Sitting Here Thinking (2020-2022)
PoetryPoetry of varying subjects and construction, the second of three. Written while sitting anywhere, lost in thought about everything and anything. Accolades: #1 Thought Provoking 2/26/2020 #1 Self-Reflection 3/22/2020 #1 Creative Writing 7/24/2020 #3...
