It's not the hunger pangs that worry me,
It's this ache that I feel.
The ache that rises out of nowhere
N'one being the reason.
If I were an artist that day
I would have painted the sky grey,
With clouds, dense like cotton puffs.
The earth would have flowers
But all gloomy.
The picture would.
The picture will.
The picture would be the perfect illustration.
The picture will be anything but happy.
The ache that makes my world grey,
Never really goes away.
It stays.
Silent, some days
Yet bangs on the other days.
YOU ARE READING
A Storm of Thoughts
PoesieWhy remain dormant when you can burst out and let the world know?
