The Bridge

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Editorial and Opinion  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is now my third poem, and I suppose if you noticed, there is no direct meaning to any of them because I like to see how others interpret and critique my work. Also, I'm not good at giving anything a true meaning; sometimes I change it on a whim, or make modifications if I think I can improve it, or if I just don't like it.
I'm not expecting this poem to succeed because I wrote this up in one sitting, and I just wanted to get it down on paper. If you like it, then that's good. If you'd like to post your thought about it, you're free to do so. Just remember to keep it free of any hate or profanity.

Submitted: January 19, 2017

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Submitted: January 19, 2017



The Bridge

I’m not sure how I came here.

All I know is I’m tired,

So I stand on this bridge.

It’s nothing special;

Joining the two sides of a black abyss,

Waiting to swallow me whole.

It is a weary bridge;

The ropes frayed,

The wood rotten,

And it sways lazily with the wind.

It’s just like me.

There are only two ways off;

Well, it could be three.

I just need to walk to either side,

Or I could just wait for the inevitable plunge into darkness.

I don’t know what will happen with any choice.

All I know is I’m tired,

And I’m on the bridge.

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