TWS #68
Every morning of every day,
a blurry hand rubs unformed eyes
until tossing and turning finally done,
restful sleep never come
You've your experiment to run,
where will nervous flesh will flee?
when led by a disquieted head and
encouraged by an unmended heart
This is your burden:
to poke,
prod,
and work yourself out
I've my own burden;
with a soul made weary
with each test of faith.
Just promise not to leave me behind
tell me your heart
no matter the hurt
of mine
8/11/11
p.s.w.
YOU ARE READING
Typed Word Series
PoetryWords connect all of us. Through laughter, memories, or ridiculous melancholy, we are what we say and what we write. TWS differs from WWS in form only. These are poems longer than 7 lines, allowing a little more freedom in exploring themes and more...
