Eternal conflict with inferiority,
Journeying for prestige and all that coexists,
Brought on by the harsh reality:
Man is nothing devoid of influence.
My eyes burn with streaks of
Thoughtful nights
Ideas swim inside my mind
Dancing with ghosts of girls I wished were in my bed
I remain awake inside the dark
Tortured by an empty heart,
I wish these forlorn dreams changed to
Happy ones instead.
But I cannot mourn,
I’ve manufactured my own grief
Pursue my prose and poems
Above all else
I clung to that belief
Now I sit alone
Faith in those feelings
Fades,
And I must come to terms with
The sacrifice I’ve made
I’ve suppressed
The energy inside my loins
And directed it to
Plans of endless coin
Entwined inside the web
Society has spun
For me
There’s no going back—
Everything I did is
Done.
No, I cannot mourn
Time solely flows on
And thoughts of those mistakes
May as well be gone
Enslaved by ambition,
Can hope for no embrace,
Instead, I come to terms with
The sacrifice I’ve made.
I come to terms with
The sacrifice I’ve made.
YOU ARE READING
Romantically Incorrect
PoetryBorn, raised, and currently living in Detroit, Michigan, Morgan Coby is a combination of many different things around him: the gritty realities of the city where he dwells, and the wondrous idealism from the fictional worlds of stories, cartoons, an...
