I'd like to write poetry that fills the empty people,
the unfeeling, their limbs numb,
their eyes unblinking from glaring into the dark visions of their glazed expressions.
I'd like to awaken them, so they may realize they are sick with sadness
that turns good things into unattainable dreams,
placing them on shelves higher then we may ever be,
because this thing drags us down,
and there's no bottom. We just continue to fall
until there is nothing left to grip, no hand outstretched, and nothing lucky
onto which we may cling
disrupting the rough walls of an endless pit. Sick.
And it's contagious, yes, it latches onto those you love and devours them before you -helpless.
I'd like to step on this leech that festers on life, and share a smile
with this race of unfulfilled, undecided, empty faces, lost,
wading in still water, patiently awaiting
life to begin or happiness to return.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 4:29 AM UTC
I'd like to write poetry that fills the empty people,
the unfeeling, their limbs numb,
their eyes unblinking from glaring into the dark visions of their glazed expressions.
I'd like to awaken them, so they may realize they are sick with sadness
that turns good things into unattainable dreams,
placing them on shelves higher then we may ever be,
because this thing drags us down,
and there's no bottom. We just continue to fall
until there is nothing left to grip, no hand outstretched, and nothing lucky
onto which we may cling
disrupting the rough walls of an endless pit. Sick.
And it's contagious, yes, it latches onto those you love and devours them before you -helpless.
I'd like to step on this leech that festers on life, and share a smile
with this race of unfulfilled, undecided, empty faces, lost,
wading in still water, patiently awaiting
life to begin or happiness to return.
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