Poetic Praise


In and out, they go

Again and again, they hurt me

But I turn to you, in my miseries

I vent to you, in my quiescence

Because you unveil my weaknesses

But sound the poetic praise.

 

Fix them, I try, though I’m broken

Sad, pathetic that I remain in shambles

But the people come to me still

And at night I sleep, only because of the pills

Funny how I can fill their emptiness

Yet be the last one, to chase the brims of happiness

 

Words and art, complexities, but the people decipher

Yet no one can really tell when my sky is afire

Smoke screens, they fail to see

But thank God, for words and art

For these sound the poetic praise

A solemn burial, to my woes and discontentment.

 

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