My Catharsis

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I feel much better now.

Submitted: March 17, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 17, 2009





Oh, Some call it frivolity,

A respite for the mad.

But if it keeps the dark away,

I’ll always find it glad.


For how can I embrace the past,

While dreaming of the end?

And think of those before me,

Who I’ll never call my friends.


Those warriors who cleared the brush

Of nice insanity.

For those of us,

Who love the lush and shun reality.


But how can things I choose to think

Be only an escape,

If all they do for me and you

Is try in vain to slake,


To slake the thirst for something more,

That haunts my every breath,

And causes every other thought

To house the stench of death.


My heart beats red, as does my head

When I no longer find,

The thoughts that once flowed joyously

From my decaying mind.


I cannot see the truth, nor lies

That once so clearly stood.

No longer can I see the lines

Dividing bad and good.


When things I read, and words I speak

Seem trite and overused,

I feel the slow, impending dread

Of living this confused.


Since when is life so cold and bare?

So bland and dehydrated?

That even those I call my friends,

Seem nigh emaciated.


When misplaced anger seizes me

With rapture and remorse,

I can’t see fit to banish it

To either winding course.


The life I know will only show

Its face to those who hear,

And fight with all their might against

That all consuming fear.


Which sings in merry mockery

Disgusting truth and loving,

That I, and all I stand for is

A base and shallow nothing.


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