The prism of mind holds infinite hues,
but none overpowers my blues.
The sun on mornings is an error,
for the night is full of terrors.
I breathe that night in.
But I'm tired of fighting.
For the wheel of change, the axle of trust,
are devoured by rust.
But I didn't quit, for I never started.
The torch bearers still departed.
So failing to stick to the decent border,
my words danced out of time and order.
The word "Hate", scribbled on my black slate.
The days go by, the time doesn't.
The blues are darker and unpleasant.
So folding my feelings into a paper plane,
I hope it soars in the hurricane.
I hope it takes a safe swim,
and the winds carry my words to him.
The prize is not worth the price,
but now it will suffice.
The wishing well is too shallow,
to hold the dreams I wish to follow.
For I even lack the clock to tell,
the moment for my descent to hell.
Counting seconds on my breaths,
counting age on the number of deaths.
When will the time cease the surprise,
that it's just death in disguise.
And life is a trampoline in guise,
for I fall and rise and fall and rise.
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
