Pathetic
It wasn't what we wrote;
that which was startling, or true,
or even the stark cynical twist
which grasped at the neck so early,
but the fact that deep below
was the cold pathetic marrow
that ached and ached and we
felt no shame in our therapy-
writing page after page
of neurotic fireworks,
and very few,
but the most low and dying
really knew
and felt
The Grime,
that slime and slithering evil
of despair and medicated happiness,
our poetic moments-
that which we could bare,
'was', and 'is' why
we will never be loved.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
