Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2016
Ticking clocks and window pains, they are my ears and eyes
I can only hear the time I waste, and see things I despise
Broken shelves and moldy wood, they are my arms and legs
They want to be fixed again, for purpose, each limb begs
Violet candles, reddish hues, they are my burning heart
It suffers in great agony, but to others it is art
***** laundry, heaps of dust, they are my own emotions
Piling up, unwanted, growing deeper than the oceans
Dull chandeliers and wine-stained carpets, they are my aspirations
What once were new and beautiful now seem like hideous creations
Plastic globes and paper maps, they are my chaotic mind
Filled with things I want to use but that I cannot find
I connect with things nobody wants, but that they still affect
Becoming worse every day, yet subject to neglect.
Written by
Iz  F
Please log in to view and add comments on poems