Has my heart stopped beating,
Or is this electric pulse in my veins
The birth of immense fortitude
And unwavering strength?
A twisted smile creeps across my lips
As I ponder the irrationality
Of the ability to feel.
So, I don't.
Even so, I wonder how great it must be
To have a consistent father,
To never worry about who will
Walk you down that distant, dreamy aisle.
How lovely it must be
To tenderly hold a hand you trust,
To feel secure in an embrace
And feel another heart beat against yours.
My very soul sings of these,
But I do not need them.
I will survive, and I will thrive,
Even if I am infinitely alone and cold-blooded.
My soul may keep singing of what it is to feel
Til she is weary and worn.
She will not stop, she will fight with her teeth, But my body will be hushed.
You, I presume, dear reader, are one of us.
We are the broken, the misfits, the loners,
The clinically corrupt, the hopelessly fallen.
Tell me, can you feel anymore?
The only thread that keeps our sorry heads
Above this mass of crashing waves
And crushing despair
Is hope.
Hold hope close, but never misplace it.
Feel this electric pulse ring in your ears,
Kiss your sorrow fearlessly
And quietly carry on.
YOU ARE READING
Tragic Poetry
PoetryHere, you will find a collection of sloppily written, heartfelt "poetry" (it can hardly be called that, as it has no rhyme or rhythm - only stanzas). These words stem from my late-night thoughts and fears. Although they are merely a mess of nonsensi...
