poetry

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 cross fire of of everyone elses pain. This is just borrowed ache. No, this couldn’t possibly be me.

I couldn’t be wrapped in a chaple 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.

 

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