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.
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