Nothing new, same old me
I have dug and dug
the pits deeper than before
I write to preserve
otherwise a blur throughout the day,
the moments I don't recognize,
mechanism of lonesome built in
writing for now,
but the rest...
I don't want to think about the rest...
idle as I share,
staring till it wills
The nights are harmonious..
the blame...the blades
maintain the semblance left,
again and again
these streets fickle
soft blows,
easing in and out.
give out what is not yours
the heinous nature, the nurture
Nothing new, same old me
spare me some decency.
How am i to tell? other than to write
words, they don't come out
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The digging part reminded me of a piece I once wrote:
I dig, I sleep and I dig, in overture
shrouded in darkness, evermore and more
beneath the moon, obscured by cloud‘s lore
the earth’s wet dirge echoes in funeral chore.
It is certainly not easy when we have to deal with pain that isn't ours to begin with.
Most of the time I have no words—or more accurately, I can't express myself verbally, as someone is always speaking over me. So, I will write instead.
I have struggled to talk or just reply to people. I was afraid, or made to be afraid, when I was young. At that time, silence was a virtue. Now it is taken as someone who ignores.
"It's not like I don't want to reply, but the words really don't come out.
Good little piece of poetry. I was lost for a moment to read through it.Some poety reflects the kind of boredom and tiredness we keep in regular life. Yet the expressions remain new.
It was such a poem. Precise but lively.
Thank you for the kind words. Precise it was, for sure if it came out lively, then I'll take it.