Standing on the edge of what is known,
Of what is pain,
Of what is home.
Wading through the mess of what's been done,
Of what we've lost, of what's become.
Such a shame- you're much too young.
Hopeless screams pierce your silence,
Aid in the indecipherable violence.
We're sailing through this river of red,
All we've had- expectantly dead.
They tell you, child, not to cry,
For they wish you'd rather die.
So follow your heart towards all that's known,
For all that's dead,
Return to home.
YOU ARE READING
Adjectives
PoetryThis is 90% of the poems I have written from the last couple years up to now. I figured since I'm starting here again, I'll just put them into one collection. New works will be published separately. Warning: Some of this is really depressing. P.S...
