Sylvia, Anne!
How can you write in this sorrowful state?
Where a mood hangs like a coat of stone,
its icy weight relentless and paralyzing.
Your fear is realized
as a casual encounter triggers
a rehearsed cheerful facade
with death behind your eyes.
Your mask has become so refined
by the sleepless hours spent
perfecting the detail of a fictitious smile
you hope will resemble the real McCoy.
All while hating yourself for
carving it in the first place.
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Author:
PACollin (
Offline) - Published: December 5th, 2017 13:21
- Comment from author about the poem: We all experience a portion of the long standing hopelessness that some of the greats were dealing with on a daily basis. I wrote this during one such period, trying to understand my own thoughts and melancholy.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 23
Offline)
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