The Caring Blues
The caring of such
beauty in her heart
is to distress and
die without
warning or notice,
to live a life
without happiness,
to see her happy
and her heart sing
with another.
The caring is such
a devilish respect
you have for
someone who
looks at you, like a
statue,
but without love,
what good does it
do.
Caring is a song,
that a nightingale
sings to a
lonesome heart in
the midst of
twilight,
when all is lost,
a shoulder to cry
on,
a heart and soul to
comfort.
But, in the end,
when all is lost for
you,
when you're down
in the dumps and
have the blues,
it always seems
that those faces
you once cared for,
never show up,
before the crack of
a neck, the cut of a
wrist,
or even the pull of
a pistol's steely
trigger,
gone, black,
goodnight.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2014
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