When noises, pain and a sore sight are all the same
Every hour, every minute seems lame
Too tired to type
With no tears to wipe
The face remains stoic and trite
Lack of joy or spite
Arms and legs stretched on the floor
Barely thinking, and feeling no more
Time flies past
Like a curse was cast.
Nothing hopeful here, all positivity lost
Acknowledge the stage of grief that doesn't gift or cost.
YOU ARE READING
Scribbled Echoes
شِعرPoetry based on the everyday attempt to be and do better. Just day in and day out happiness, sadness, fears, and hope. I hope it resonates with you as much as it does with me.
