I writhe in destinies that lie
To my heart. I am the product
Of a dismal contribution
To the lithe melancolies,
That mark my stark qualities
With a burning sensation
Of utter devestation.
I type the words,
Don't touch my lips,
The way they strive
Through my veins,
In vein arrive,
The pathos of uncertainties.
Now a days I write cliches,
A feign of former glories.
I can not contimplate the same,
As the youths that make the mass
Of melancolies that contrast
With the pen from stone unstilled,
I pulled and lulled past masses with.
YOU ARE READING
Thresheld
PoetryMy life is a series of thresholds that I overcome through poetry. Love, loss, pain, regret, humor, irony, word play, and even sarcasm are as much apart of my life as they are central to my poems here. I am Thresheld. UPDATE: It's been quite a few ye...
