I don't want to become bleak and old,
weak or wold,
peek into this ode of woes,
for this may rejuvenate my bones.
Resuscitate my mind,
help me become alive,
not succumb to my own jive,
but parole the crumb of soul locked inside.
I lust for that spark;
to bust out of the dark,
I entrust in art to
resuscitate my heart.
This is the truth that plagues our cerebral abode;
inevitably, we will all corrode,
there are no secrets to decode but
one can not seek to prolong fate...
For we all have an expiration date.
—
12/24/23
10:36 PM
Edited:
12/29/23
4:02 PM
YOU ARE READING
The Words I've Never Said
PoetryA place where I put my soul on display for the world to see. Here's a closer look at the ups and downs of my consciousness. If I could use two words to describe my writing they would be an emotional rollercoaster. My goal is to heal those reading...
