PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In the dark and dead hours of the morning

I lie awake and try to endure.

Despair creeps through my soul, an insidious shadow,

Planting the seeds of defeat in the fertile soil of hopelessness

Where they sprout, nourished by the bitter tears of unendurable pain.

As the hours creep forward toward morning they flourish and grow

Twisted vines, spiked with cruel thorns to tear the flesh

And poisoned flowers to catch the breath.

Its roots snake into the ground,

Blind and ceaseless,

Seeking out all other life and choking it.



A tiny bloom of hope, its petals bright and fragrant,

Its leaves soft and yielding,

Grows in the shade and struggles to live.

But with each passing night the tangled mess of defeat grows

And spreads.

The ground gives no water,

The sun no light.

I can no longer face the night