It's not ice,
It's not blue,
Nor is it red.
It's gotten to a point
Where the lonliness doesn't matter,
Where the numbness doesn't matter,
Where nothing really matters.
It's like a hollow robot
Walking around in an endless desserted street
With no company
But the crying clouds
Making it tire as it rusts.
It's like a ghost
Missing it's home
Missing the comfort it never got
Or missing the voices that never pleaded.
It's not a phase.
It's not a choice.
It's not a daze.
Once one becomes as hollow as a carved pumkin
There is no hope
But the want to exit
A world that they never felt part of.
Sure, there are the few things
That offer to be a great ledge to hold
But
...
When one has never been able to find someone
An emptyness violently takes reign,
A hate takes it's name as head president,
And all care is expeled from it's home.
Then no one knows what to do.
Everything is meaningless
Even though they know that one person.
However, that one person may not realize it-
Realize that they light the other's life-
And the next thing they know
Is that the damaged is no more but a
Vapor of life within a world of 7 billion.
YOU ARE READING
Telling's from the heart
PoetrySo here are a collection of poems inspired by stories whispered or stories told. Here are to those going through tough times and to get better. Here are to those that are at their peak and to keep up their good work. ***PLEASE IGNORE THE LETTERS THA...
