The question that irks me,
Is what strips me of sleep,
"What are you passionate about?"
Has the answer I still seek.
Years passing with no luck,
As my self-value shrivels,
Why can't I get it together,
My art can't cut it with scribbles,
But if I can write in swivels,
And sign off with my initials,
I can attack that questions,
With whistling missiles,
And pistols loaded with riddles,
Firing on all cylinders,
until my flame starts to wither,
Until the day comes,
Its not passion,
Its addiction.
YOU ARE READING
Shelter In The Dark (Poetry)
PoesiaLate nights are notorious for the thoughts and pain which come to life. However, my late nights provided me with my safest hours. The following has been written in a state of literal darkness, mentally and physically. My thoughts came to life, and w...
