PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Hardly knowing where to turn

What bridges to gap or burn

What makes my stomach constantly churn?

And how to keep my feet planted firm



So I take this rum in my left hand and ask it

“Why am I always so easily bit?

And why does the venom never hit?

Why not enough to kill me where I sit?”



It never answers me anymore

Its old warm felling washed up on the shore

Its tales become old folk lore

Leaving me lying limp upon the floor



Stolen from me was my glee

That which left my heart free

I was better of when I could not see

All the troubles in front of me