Her being the only person making me look foward to tomorrow,
Noone else seeing the sorrow,
My life being so hollow,
I'm trapped in the picture I painted,
A portrait of an artist tortured,
The final chapter of the saga,
Where the thoughts are blacker and darker than anything imaginable,
It's like I'm in the dirt digging up old hurt,
No, I am not, he does the digging and throws me the dirt,
He criticizes her all day, everyday,
It's sickening to listen to,
I thank God for my patience,
Yes, she'd made some wrong choices,
But so have we all, and yet we don't dwell on them,
Why does she have to be described by her wrong?
Why does it have to be the focal point of every talk, every argument?
If there's one choice I think she made wrong and we both regret, it was meeting you,
Things happen for a reason I guess,
It's now time to realize the reason,
Come to your senses (if you have any),
Analyze the situation, look at the facts,
Don't blame her, put yourself under the scope too,
What role did you play?
Were you ever for the better?
Did you ever have anyone's best interests at heart or was it just always you?
Think, use your low IQ, reasonate within self,
Then tell me, are you really settling anything or disturbing the calm?
Resolve the unsettled.
YOU ARE READING
Freedom Of Thought.
PoetryIf my thoughts were a pen and my hands were the canvas, even I would not fully get the sense of it.
