People like adventure-----swimming in rivers with raging currents, climbing steep mountains, sky diving and death-defying roller coaster rides. And they always say that it's an amazing experience, they always say that it's one hell of an adventure. They'll look down on me for not trying, saying I'll never experience the thrill and the fear of falling into my death and the relief of surviving it. But how can they say this to me? How can they say that I'm not adventurous, when everyday, I'm fighting the currents of this damn life? Everyday, I feel like falling into my death, and I always survive. But I don't feel relieved. Instead, I always feel hollow and the same time angry for not dying. How can they say that I'm weak, when I'm climbing the mountain of longing everyday? The peak of this mountain is not as mesmerizing as the mountains they climb. It's just lonely and hollow and empty. How could they say that I'm not adventurous, when I'm risking my heart against the pain everyday? Everyday.
:(
YOU ARE READING
Purple Roses
PoetryLife sometimes gives you purple roses, in a dark and scary shade. The thorns are much sharper; they wound you like blades. *A collection of lonesome poems by a lazy human
