How can I ever feel better?
What sick desire grows within me that
tries to justify my own happiness;
when I have done such hurt to others?
What in me seeks noise, and to avoid the quiet places?
Something that knows the pain quiet would bring.
Reflection to memory, memory to guilt.
Guilt to a slow death.
Not death of the flesh. That would be a mercy.
Death of my soul – my body, a shell for my heart-sick spirit.
My seeds, grown to saplings, and do not need tending.
Wind, storms, harsh sun – I cannot protect my little trees.
Some say they have been taken from me, but my heart
Will not tolerate the lies.
I left my trees. I can check on them from time to time –
but only to observe.
My influence is gone.
My poetry is gone.
My power is gone
How cruel that I still have breath.
Loading comments...