It's hard to see beyond
just how you're feeling.
Past your own sorrow
there is such little meaning,
you can't comprehend
normality, without stumbling and reeling.
So motionless, you stare
at the yellow stained
ceiling.
It reminds you to smoke
another scant rollup.
You cough and you shiver and
the tab ends, they pile up.
Then something just snaps,
you decide to move
and to get up.
The oil paints squeezed
and the canvas too mellow.
You look to the light and
the ceiling, stained yellow.
YOU ARE READING
Happier a little sad.
Thơ caThe book title poem, happier a little sad is a reflection of when find that if I am totally carefree, which isn't very often! That I do not get any inspiration for writing poetry. I wrote this poem that explains it. *********************************...
