PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

tears the color of ashes,

ashes the color of blood,

my heart, a semblance of comfort,

and begging to be loved.



hope has spread its wings and flown,

out of this darkened room,

above the highest sights in soars,

my position below is consumed.



these webs, a sticky tangled mass,

and you, the black widower,

i run over the nearest threshold,

in search of a life i can endure.



and you've only chosen to hold me,

because your former self is dead,

wrapped up in a soulful whisper,

replacing love with hate instead.



escape is lost in solitude,

and solitude escapes in the crowd,

mingled with a meaningful word,

but (the truth) never spoken aloud.



pandora's box is in your hands;

you know its contents well,

but are the stories told in truth,

or purposely made so i'll never tell?