Donations are essential to keep Write Out Loud going    


A cloud hanging above me,

black and thick like a pool of tar,

I don’t think I can go very far,

all I can muster is simply be.


Skeleton with a coat of sinew and flesh,

the same wounds keep opening up as fresh,

this existence is mostly void of joy,

the little there is feels like a ploy.


Can’t stop pondering death,

maybe it’s all a waste of breath,

too numb to care, too sore to not,

a cesspool of anxiety, filled with rot.


Endless paths right ahead,

their ends are all dead,

follow them to new places,

beasts with a handful of aces.


Heart replaced by pulsating emptiness,

aches to be filled, what’s there but sadness.


Glints of hope are a baseless illusion,

trying to reach them only brings erosion.


Falling into an endless abyss,

nothing to feel, nothing to miss,

on my face a vacant expression,

stunned motionless by depression.



◄ wrath

holding on ►


No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message