From Dusk til Dawn,
waiting for the ghosts to leave,
and the sun to rise again,
I ache for morning.
Sitting in the Dusk,
nervous of the dark closing in.
Will I make it to the light?
Or wither like a starved flower?
Sitting in the Dusk, I realize
there's no point in patience.
The Dawn can never lift
the darkness clouding my mind.
Sitting in the Dawn,
I patiently waited for the Dusk to leave;
yet it never did, and I realize
I'm so tired.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 5:25 AM UTC
From Dusk til Dawn,
waiting for the ghosts to leave,
and the sun to rise again,
I ache for morning.
Sitting in the Dusk,
nervous of the dark closing in.
Will I make it to the light?
Or wither like a starved flower?
Sitting in the Dusk, I realize
there's no point in patience.
The Dawn can never lift
the darkness clouding my mind.
Sitting in the Dawn,
I patiently waited for the Dusk to leave;
yet it never did, and I realize
I'm so tired.
This poem is either terrible and cringey or ok, I cant really tell which so here it is.
