For what am I but a man,
Alone I walk, alone I stand,
My mind; the only place where life ain't so bad,
What I can't do down here- up there I can.
And what am I but a fickle flower?
The echoes of silence that get louder and louder,
As I gaze upon my broken life from a tall castle tower,
As the fruits that grew my consciousness turn a bitter wicked sour.
What am I but an unloved creature?
Not a shard of perfection in any of my features,
Although I am dead and numb inside,
I've still God's spine to hide behind.
Hope is not something that one can find,
It's in your soul; it's in your mind,
I fight the evil; my inner inside,
I thought I'd won- but now we're tied.
Nov 27, 2024
Nov 27, 2024 at 8:54 AM UTC
For what am I but a man,
Alone I walk, alone I stand,
My mind; the only place where life ain't so bad,
What I can't do down here- up there I can.
And what am I but a fickle flower?
The echoes of silence that get louder and louder,
As I gaze upon my broken life from a tall castle tower,
As the fruits that grew my consciousness turn a bitter wicked sour.
What am I but an unloved creature?
Not a shard of perfection in any of my features,
Although I am dead and numb inside,
I've still God's spine to hide behind.
Hope is not something that one can find,
It's in your soul; it's in your mind,
I fight the evil; my inner inside,
I thought I'd won- but now we're tied.
This is a poem I wrote a few years ago. I'm 19 now and this was written when I was nearly 15
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