This is not what I wanted...
this place is not where I wanted
to be...
this city of desolation.
The land is parched...
The trees are bare -
they stand like burnt skeletns:
dead souless sentinels,
left as markers or
signs, signs of the times.
The sun no longer is seen;
each day brings only gray
flat, formless clouds above.
I cannot bear
this time, this place,
this reality.
Gone are most colors...
all that rmains are dark
shades of gray.
Some say the end is near.
They have more hope than I do.
I think this monotony,
days like this, these days,
will go on and on and on
forever.
YOU ARE READING
Echoes of the Psyche
PuisiThis is a collection of poems that in some way relate to mental health, psychological experiences, states of mind and so on. I have relied on my own empathy when describing the experiences of others to present different states of mind or internal ex...
