Blame
A man can fail many times, but he isn't a failure until he begins to blame somebody else. John Burroughs
This is not a sad poem,
but my hungry hands hunger to express,
as autumn brings back haunting hues,
stinging my sleeping soul.
All I hear is melancholic tones,
whistling in mercenary winds,
lifting leaves from bare branches.
Bright colours turning grisly grey,
as the season of death,
creates a grave full of misery.
I cannot forever criticise ghosts,
nor refuse to visit your tomb.
As each petal slowly fades,
I'm too tired to accuse or be accused.
I've formed into a personified weeping willow,
releasing rivers of bitterness through raindrops.
In my nakedness, I resemble their withering woes,
trying to smile, composing a suicide of emotions,
dangling, distracting from that which is real,
but my muteness is literally slaying my pain.
Why am I always the one to blame?
I do not feel safe in the angst of Autumn,
for my essence is not eternally evergreen.
I'm fatigued from those who claim to love me,
unable to save me from sinking into seas of sorrow.
My selfish friends are like silent marionettes,
nowhere to be seen nor heard,
abandoning me in the darkest corner,
despite my pen pouring like October rain.
Maybe this is a sad poem,
as I still search for forgiveness.
I keep the faith that my roots will bloom again,
because I am a vibrant child of summer,
yearning for the return of colouration.
Adapting to living without answers.
Copyright ©
Silent One
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