on my chest


That weight.

If you travel alone
if you weep alone
it is harder to push away the painful thorn.

When no one whispers in the dark
when there are no lights on in the park
narrating your saddest tales seems to hard.

If the wounds on your chest still bleed
and inside you there is no ambition,hope or creed
it is your duty, the mourning storytellers to lead.

And all night you try to find the mighty truth
the releasing truth in your know-it-all book
but there is nothing there, not even a joyful prelude.

If you do not feel a thing
if death is wrapped around you like a huge ring
it is your responsibility the demons to feed.



Poetry by Eva
Read 949 times
Written on 2009-04-14 at 17:45

Tags Pain  Sad  Bleed 

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