Inner

0 Comments

Tags:
  • Loss

    Inner

    The feverish inkling. At first dawn
    I, still nothing but a child
    Even though at thirty one
    I've managed to gain no love
    The space in time strikes still with hurt, The clock strikes at
    Zero, with no friend and love in sight
    To try and reach for the overarching glow
    Thorned up stem, being shy
    Pricked with depression and silence
    Many times, events in life, just breezed
    With heat and chills, Still many were hurts
    Passed over for fear
    Rejection that nagging self
    Always watching me at bay
    How I wish I was proud, happy and tall

    Poem Comments

    (0)

    Please login or register

    You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
    leave comments/feedback and rate this poem.

    Login or Register

    The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both.

    Ralph Waldo Emerson, American Poet (1803-1882)

    DennisterM’s Poems (13)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    Orange curtains 0
    Pines sap 0
    American 0
    Grimhilde 0
    Western 0
    Sweat 1
    Mists 0
    Separation 1
    Deadened 0
    Horizons 0
    Inner 0
    Awake 1
    Soldier 0