He was a man that would labor in calamity
As the heat of his own fire had sadness it in
He began to become quiet and subtle
Breathless as noon and as grim as midnight
Were his motives
He was a man that cried at night
But by day without sight
He would wipe his dilated blood shot eyes out
A lot of people thought he was strong though
Behind his embodied fragment carelessly stitched together physique
As he ploughed in great labor
Owning ten wives
And only satisfying them with words made with knives
That would leave them blood shot
As blood gushed out profusely
The man that cried hides behind his anger and frustration
Fluctuating grinds of screeching slaughter knives into lopsided rails
Remaining inconsistent and parallel without time
As he holds nothing
Whilst grasping the essence of something that is obscure
He foolishly lies with a poisonous tongue
Depicting only a tapestry
That is consumed in a spiral of sadness and agony
The crying man
Is within us all
It's our decision to decide, whether he must cry or collapse from a tower
Filled with paperclips of fury
YOU ARE READING
A shadow of silhouettes
PoetryAs humans we paint a fabricated picture of who we are and what we stand for. We are caught in pits of hells as we try to impress the status quo of a today society's...
