Praying for an unidentified sound,
A clock tick,
A roach scampering,
something to cure the deafening hush.
The ears of the hopeless pulp, scraping the walls,
hoping the thoughts would be scraped away in sequence.
Off the cliff I jumped,
hoping for a safe fall,
crying out mid air hoping for a call,
To say stop.
How selfish as one been to gather these thoughts, laying a mattress in my consciousness swaying away to the ambiance.
_Shawnavan Earle
YOU ARE READING
TALES OF A CONFUSED MIND
PoetryThis book has been years in the making. It contains a cluster of poems, not inane sequence or storytelling form but rather all falling under a similar theme. Some of poems are a bit personal to me but most of them are character based.I tend to imagi...
