The curse of a good man,
Is to be a light for others,
Even if it means consuming himself.
So call me cruel,
Cast eyes down at me,
The wicked man, black soul,
But know I've walked that road.
Been bent twisted back,
Straining under the load of burdens taken freely,
My own already too heavy,
Piled on even when I tried to step back,
Never asking about shaking legs,
Eyes blinded to weary eyes leaking salt.
Hands of labor soon grow calloused,
Why would labored heart be different?
I walked that road gaining nothing but pain,
Forgive me if I walk now on my own.
YOU ARE READING
Dark Nights at Noon A Collection of Poetry
PoetryA collection of poems about my struggles with mental health issues. Writing has always been an escape for me and it has exposed me to some of the most wonderful and creative people this generation has to offer. Their words continue to inspire me to...
