Self Inflicted

To continually crave for something never to be yours, saddens the heart and closes doors. Dreams are but dreams and are no match for reality's harsh touch, to want what cannot be is too much for the heart to take. No blame can be appointed only the circumstances accepted, life is never the level road we all hope for, it is littered with ifs and buts. These self inflicted wounds we poets share, longing, yearning for something no longer there. And yet the pen wanders aimlessly across the page, oblivious to feelings, words and age.