La di da.
The tune plays over again.
Sounding much the same, I listen to the ripples of the song I've heard before.
La di da.
My ears are deafening in this soundless nothing,
Repeating and pounding on the radio
I'm quite lonely, maybe. Or just alone.
A comfortless note warms my skin but no more
For it cannot go any deeper as long as I'm listening.
Because all I hear is
La di da
Which for sure is not what the composer intended
And it never is.
YOU ARE READING
"She"
Poetry"Some days we're dead. Others we're alive. In all of them we exist." Poetry Collection, accumulation of most of my work. Femminine feelings that can only be felt by some. Inner thoughts, whims and feelings are written here. If I can impact you a...
