The tragedy of the world is perhaps in
having the sight of the most beautiful night,
and yet, being all too alone
in your small musty room
that smells faintly of crushed cigarette butts,
of dirty plates and coffee-stained cups,
and semen-soiled pants;
with no one,
not even a voice scolding you for staying up so late,
but yourself,
to truly share the night with.
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Author:
Bells (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 7th, 2026 00:25
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
This poem depicts a soul truly alone, where no one cares enough to be near, or even give instruction. Deserted and unimportant to all, disregarded. It is cold and sterile in its grime. Nicely done in a raw manner a fave
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