The night is young,
It doesn't hold promises but.
The Day of my return,
is the Only constant but.
Tomorrow, a demon will rise,
Miserable and impotent but.
Envy beckons for friends who get to stay,
They are veteran nomads but.
Grief is a simplistic escape,
It is natural but.
The guilt of doing less slithers in swiftly,
tis not a revelation but.
Being more is a state of being,
it is no replacement for action but.
Bad poems are emotional diarrhea,
you just ate your heart out but.
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2 comments:
That is a very mice poem you've written. You actually write very good, i dunno why you keep cursing yourself that you dont write well. The poem is simple but still has so many hidden things. And anybody who is away from his home and on his home can relate to it.
But I've lost that adolescent edge that my works previously had. I'll have to like my new writing self, sooner or later though.
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