I’m not the kind of poet people read.
My poems, I don’t pen, I simply bleed.
My words won’t turn to ink or rest as rhyme.
They’re trapped inside, and I don’t have the time
to sit composing ‘neath a garret roof.
I’m sociable, not saint who sits aloof.
Besides, a broken heart’s a private hell,
a tragic tale too terrible to tell.
So, I won’t wear upon these tattered sleeves
a heart that ghost of girl who’s gone still grieves.
I’d rather bare for you a braver face,
composed and calm, so sorrow you won’t trace.
But if I were to pour upon this page
my words, set free from capture in this cage.
If paper, I allowed my words to kiss,
I suppose my rhymes would read like this!
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 22nd, 2022 02:39
- Comment from author about the poem: for poets of pain
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 18
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments3
'I’m not the kind of poet people read.
My poems, I don’t pen, I simply bleed.'
Brilliant!
How many poems have you? If they are all like this,..... No slacking - keep at it!
Thanks, Dave
I really love your poems and your rhymes. They kindve remind me of myself. What a great piece of poetry we have here!!! Great job!!
Thank you, Christina.
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