Misery;a poem

Misery doesn’t know my name. Misery can’t tell me what color my eyes are. Misery knows your mistakes better than I do.

But no, I must be an innocent bystander standing in a crossfire of everyone else’s pain. This is just borrowed ache. No, this couldn’t possibly be me.

I couldn’t be wrapped in a chapel praying for my name’s sake. Humming a tune of forgotten stories cause the silence sings of the present that offers joy that I can’t bring myself to grip for fear that it finds its way into someone else’s lost and found.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s