Someone once asked me
Why a happy poem I cannot write.
Why this book is filled with darkness,
Why there's never any light.
I cannot write of fiction,
Or fabulous make-believe.
Poetry's a way to express myself.
See my heart there on my sleeve?
I've never known true love.
I hardly ever smile.
My life is not a fairy-tale.
I've been through many trials.
Empty is my only friend,
And misery surrounds me.
I will not twist the truth.
My stories are not of glee.
I cry when no one's looking,
Getting pounded by the rain.
My work is not of fiction.
I only know of pain.
 2Dandmansonsgalpoison · Sat Mar 14, 2009 @ 12:48am · 0 Comments |
