My broken home is not worthy
Within your righteous paradise
Your ink that spilled
As page was filled
And held the moon
With rich sorcery
Never the story of my life
You see I have a sickness
And found in your lap no cure
The sweet hemlock from your quill
Bloodied sheets against my will
Made me mad
And commenced
The story. My endless endure!
My tainted love is fractured
My body barren scarred and war-torn
No use in artist’s dream
My deeds are never wholesome seen
And though I strive
To be good
My poetry pukes blood. Forlorn!
I was not made for your forgiveness
Because my being is all wrong
Not here, not anywhere
Free from mine and your and their
A place
A home
My words nowhere. Belong
I am what I was born as
And what I was made to be
Your enigma and your nemesis
Chasing the shadows of my genesis
Sullied. Spoiled
Sick. Recoiled
Black as the sea.
And Endless
Un-worthy
Is
Me
-
Author:
sylviasearcher (
Offline) - Published: March 1st, 2019 05:19
- Comment from author about the poem: Having real problems with formatting lately, just another sign I guess. Just had a realisation I guess and it brewed this for breakfast.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 33
Offline)
Comments4
We find a happiness even in sadness there is something wrong with us that is so right were are not much but we have words these mke us poets... want it or not
Another great exprssive write Sylvia
Thanks for you kind words Andrew Charles Forrest
there is nowt wrong with this write right..... enjoyed & then some .. N
Thanks Neville, even my words feel out of place most days
Your words are spot on - the work of a true poet.
Thanks Michael, I never feel like a ‘true poet’ whatever one of those is.
Think I’d like to be though, so thanks 😌
You are ….👍
Very powerful write
Thank you for your uplifting comment Serenwise
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