Deep and Dark Poets
Let us be; we are fine.
Our hearts are broken,
and we do all cry;
we show our emotions in blood and metaphor;
you sit and smile at my sorrow,
then you ask if you can help me.
The smiles are fake, but the words are real!
I throw my sorrow on a thin, piece of paper and call it poetry,
while dotting my I's with tear drops.
We are all poets, some speak it;
others write it,
but we never forget it.
You call me a cry baby,
saying all I do is complain,
and you point out the flaws instead
of encouraging the good to come out and shine;
"Another teen suicide today"-Oh- I wonder why?
No one cares,
till you are packed in a box and put six feet under.
Break my heart when I'm alive and well,
and stich my heart back together with words of praise
when I'm dead and long gone.
Nothing left to show,
but a stone with a name and date that is covered by fog
and forgetful snow.
We are the modern day Romantics,
so break our hearts for if we cry and wonder,
it means our hearts are still beating.
Don't still my hand or his or hers,
for we all have something to share
that's worth hearing,
... someone just has to listen...
.1.29.2014.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2014
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