The hue of blood, the tint of red,
the bleak black roses on a thorn bed,
the shining sharp edge of a knife,
is it so easy to take a life?
"why so much hatred honey?" they ask
did they ever see through my mask?
did they ever understand?
did they ever extend a hand?
"Negative" the word both simple and not,
pessimism is an incurable clot,
the more you think the more you decay,
seems a dreary night, a bright happy day,
have they seen me cry?
every damn day have they seen me die?
the contentment of digging nails in flesh,
have they been through such mess?
"why so absent , why so distant ?"
for all I am now is their handy pendant,
push and swing me the way they want,
caress me fondly when it's time to flaunt,
Is that all I am worth ?
Is that my permanent berth?
The metallic taste of the dense red liquid,
the void black spots, images are fluid,
the parched throat with every swallow,
body seems heavy, but the soul is hollow,
do they know how I stand?
the weak limbs shake like grains of sand,
tired of being tossed like thrash,
the crave to shrink into a ball of ash,
do they understand?
do you understand?
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
