It's hard to write
and put life into poetry,
when only few words define you
and set you free.
The menace has long caused
your self being to grow dull,
with those pictures clipped over your desk scurrying everything into a blur.
Maybe the numbness resonates with your mood,
Maybe the dark side finds your acceptance,
but the real reason is not you,
neither your numbness.
You explain to cover up,
and try to unleash untold stories at the back of your mind,
but is it all worth it
when you are the one you are unable to find?
The irreparable scars and the fear,
unable to detach themselves from you,
maybe this can explain,
the reason for a failed come through.
That's the way you have with poetry now you see,
getting up and falling down
trying to explain you the real me.
Conflicts within unnurtured souls,
brewing up with each passing day,
oh well i find!
how triggered is my dismay.
Chance upon it, dear reader,
what if the opportunities had something,
just even a pinch good enough,
to get any better,
and give you wings.