Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2017
I'm not enlightened, or righteous. Nothing I love is original. I'm a cynic, a bore, a parasite. A festering wound that should have long scabbed over by now. I'm only happy when I'm miserable.  And yes, it's easy to draw them in, and even to hold them for a while. But, eventually, it sets in. So, give me a chance. and I can make you happy, too.
Written by
Please log in to view and add comments on poems