The sun rises,
The birds return,
And I lie here,
Waiting for the
Next little pain.
Now I am made
Of thinnest paper,
Each new tear
Erasing the me
I used to love.
As predictable
As morning itself,
So much so, that
I almost don't feel it;
Until I do.
Am I the mother,
Or am I the child?
I no longer know.
There is but one thing
Of which I am certain;
You are the man
Who tears.
-
Author:
Kora (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 22nd, 2026 19:47
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 52
- Users favorite of this poem: Demar Desu - 德马尔·德苏, mlaika :), Andrew Charles Forrest
Offline)
Comments3
Uncertainty voiced in this poem with metaphor nicely expressed
love
Very emotionally written. A worried and broken heart is only half a heart.
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