That what can be created


How silly of me to ask for
What doesn’t need asking
And what still needs me to work
How silly of me to say
What can be vaporised in writing
Rubbed to air on paper
How silly of me to share
What can be felt better alone
That raw trust of sickness
Quietude of pain, immaculate, uncommented
How silly of me to ask for
That what can be created
How silly of me to ask you to change
When I can find comfort in my solitude

Advertisements

Leave your thoughts here!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s