Lonely, under the strobe lights,
Lonely, darkened rooms, dead lights.
Lonely, a thousand faces- tear-streaked,
Lonely, empty rooms, silent feet.
It's lonely at the top,
It's miserable at the bottom.
Life is a damn conundrum.
A tightrope walk, tip-toeing in line,
Dull, even when you glaringly shine.
Appreciation and praise
Remains your only sustenance,
A drug familiarized,
By incessant upping of that dosage.
Satisfaction, a carrot stick away,
You, the donkey, chasing with a bray.
Realizing, when finally happens,
You're too far gone.
Lonely, like a meteor, no anchors,
Floating in the dark abyss of space,
Residual memories of your own fading face.
YOU ARE READING
Window To The Soul
PoetryWords merely are noises that we make and the sense we find in it. They are a constricted imagery to the river of thoughts, constantly battering the cage which encases them. Words are what we raise ourselves upon and what breaks us, only to make us...
