Pointless
Dark and dreary.
Possible, but not likely.
Waiting for something that will not appear.
A glimour of hope fades like the setting sun.
Anger and hatred rises with despair.
Explodes with fury like dynamite.
The soul is covered like shuttered windows.
Bursting open from gusts of pain.
Hiding true emotions.
For knives in the back hurt.
Only violence can dull the suffering.
Hell, the world must feel like me.
Copyright © Michael Osborne | Year Posted 2005
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