Where There Is Empty Space Poem, by Jordan Cash, at My poetic side

Everything is happening at a snail's pace

It's making me mad for a life I've never lead

Each car drives past and my burning desire grows

Like the silence has ballooned into a garden

Where I dream about freedom

Feeling like I'm a ship at harbor

The gate has been opened

Like a can of worms

We share the same symptoms

We share the same dreams

A sticky fluid is seeping

I don't know what it means

I can't get off the roundabout

I've always got things to refine

Wooden things, new trimmings

One of a kind things

It's my Achilles heel

A resplendent flaw on show

I've tried for forever to turn it around

But I die with each new spring tide

I get wild on hot nights

I submit to the vice

I don't speak lies, I can't

But each new day I'm less coherent

I enjoy my morning bowl of cereal

Then I go to work

I repeat this, seven days a week

I sleep, I eat, I get high, I masturbate

I feel like shit most days

I'm either too tired or too awake

Locked in my brain, isolated

Dreaming about things that would never happen

Dreaming about things that could never happen

Forbidden dreams, sweet dreams

The best dreams

I find it amusing I'm frivolous

Coping as best as I can

I've been in better conditions

Seen brighter suns and skies

This is the last time I'm crying

Yeah, it feels good.

dusk arising May 12th, 2020 08:17
Told like it is! This is a man's world if he gets up off his ass and makes it his world.
Temptations call beckons.

(Man's/Woman's either way)

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.

Where There Is Empty Space