In sorrow do we not weep?
In triumph do we not rejoice?
Do we not share passionate kisses
And whisper long held secrets
In the hours of the twilight?
Tag: Writing
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Walls witness tears in dark rooms.
Debilitating illness drains strength
And leaves one listless and withered.
The venom of fear infiltrates bloodstream
And relentlessly infuses itself.
Movements are slow and measured.
Lethargy renders the once youthful
Spirit to ashes and dust;
The chaos of the mind is manifested.
War rages behind bloodshot eyes.
Days of the week are forgotten
And become useless and irrelevant.
The sun is not felt or seen for months.
Time is measured in moments of reprieve.
The toxicity of it is potent, and unforgiving.
Pain is purged through tears and loud cries.
Thoughts of existence are contemplated
And weighed in the balance. -
Sadness is left behind,
And fear and anger dissipate;
Acceptance has taken over
As they calmly await their fate. -
At 2 A.M. she does her dance,
Her eyes of sorrow hidden by euphoric trance.
She does her best to entertain the crowd;
Wide eyes they glare, and the shouts are loud;
Her fluid movements cause money to rain,
For the dirty bills are her source of gain.
It’s behind the eyes, oh those weary eyes,
Where her soul seeks warmth, and her spirit cries.
Her passion is singing; her passion is life;
Still she walks in heels on a winter’s night,
To make a living the only way she has known,
For the long dark road has become her home.
She is mentally afflicted, because she is a victim
Of abuse in her childhood, when pain was inflicted.
Her tears are the tears of an angel …
She longs for understanding; she longs for light;
For a heavenly shelter from the cold of night.
As she strips her clothes, pain strips her soul;
Only the familiar eyes of her sorrow would know.
She is an angel. A beautiful woman.
At 2 A.M. she is still a woman. -
Dried teardrops are invisible. The heaviness of sorrow lingers. Agony of unrealized dreams are consumed by the darkness. Remnants of pain are left on a razor’s edge. Angels weep.
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Misery has found me and the dark place relentlessly calls for me. I can hear the weeping of the sorrowful; the unceasing bellowing of the tormented is unbearable, and renders me despondent. The woman in the black veil stares at me and sees my distress. With a haunting wail she disappears into the darkness; the train of her black dress follows behind her. My soul burns with anguish within me. I have called to the heavens with tears but have heard no answer; my only comfort is the memory of my mother. The desolation wears on me, and the abyss pulls me closer to the ground. I have stood strong for many seasons, but the years have quietly stolen my youthful strength. The putrid smoke of the abyss is offensive and it scorches my eyes. I stumble around in darkness wanting to cry out but I will not give the dark place any more of my tears. Within me, hope wanes and despair has taken up residence. Only the fire of anger keeps my feet steady on the long and dark road. Sorrow increases day by day, and the poisonous fruit of trepidation is eaten by many. Is there any rest for the weary? So many tired and ghostly faces pass by me as I look into their eyes intently. Suffering has been our portion, and unrelenting pain our heavy cross to bear. Who will witness our plight and record the days of our lives? Maybe the heavens will open, and finally hear the agony in my cries.
Intimate Compositions 