There’s no peace for the wicked,
we drink consequence from our own cup.
Like a baby drawn to her mother’s ******
I pacify myself.
Listening for the voice:
“it’ll be ok, everything’s’ ok”.
Only silence.
There’s no consolation in this bottle,
only more tears;
these eyes have run dry.
Need to find out a way out of this pit,
Up, up, up
out of a hellish reality of despair,
trying to find the words that’ll take me there.
Maybe I’ll write some more,
but I can only write what I know,
self-esteem,
so low.
I don’t understand the world.
I don’t wanna go back.
The world’s an illusion,
like professional wrestling,
it’s fake, it's phony, it’s a sham.
Yet we all sit here like gleeful wrestling fans,
submitting ourselves to an illusion we know isn’t real.
As the weak prey upon the weak, they feast upon themselves.
It’s time for me to turn the other cheek, get up and move on.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
There’s no peace for the wicked,
we drink consequence from our own cup.
Like a baby drawn to her mother’s ******
I pacify myself.
Listening for the voice:
“it’ll be ok, everything’s’ ok”.
Only silence.
There’s no consolation in this bottle,
only more tears;
these eyes have run dry.
Need to find out a way out of this pit,
Up, up, up
out of a hellish reality of despair,
trying to find the words that’ll take me there.
Maybe I’ll write some more,
but I can only write what I know,
self-esteem,
so low.
I don’t understand the world.
I don’t wanna go back.
The world’s an illusion,
like professional wrestling,
it’s fake, it's phony, it’s a sham.
Yet we all sit here like gleeful wrestling fans,
submitting ourselves to an illusion we know isn’t real.
As the weak prey upon the weak, they feast upon themselves.
It’s time for me to turn the other cheek, get up and move on.
life poem poetry personal
