Tested
The downtrodden have instilled the fear,
The loss that is never heard,
Could it be the gentle brook,
Or the violent spoken word.
I bestill my mind with dampened spirits,
An ache that never sleeps,
Could it be the rotten corpse?
Or the widow as she weeps.
A thought to tame my wild thoughts,
To brush against a breast,
To feel the hatred well within,
A torturous little jest.
A Solemn word that bring the joy,
A splinter to bring the pain,
Could be the gentle laugh,
Or the twist of Cain.
As I finish my thoughts of the day,
Some words to capture whats real,
I take the pleasure in the pain,
Knowing the world I know is real.
Copyright © Frank Quintana | Year Posted 2012
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