June 28 2oo3 Shawna L.
How sad to see;
those who stand,
before me.
Those I dearly love,
but shrink from me.
For my unwanted thoughts,
so piercing.
Invade their,
precious memory.
And they laugh and
turn away.
Thinking the girl
has lost her mind.
And I am but
searching,
for things lost
with time.
And this, she speaks
in tongue.
For surely some
were meant
to never know.
The things in which
she whispers,
are the talking of
my soul.
And this I am:
This Tragic Poet;
the love of
days of old.
The Mad Artist;
as the picture,
slowly unfolds.
A lover of death;
for I've embraced,
it fondly.
And looked upon life;
and its creatures,
kindly.
But the humans.
are far from harmless.
And I am plagued with,
the thoughtless.
And I find myself,
standing alone.
For that is how
its always been.
And the Gods have remembered;
past sins,
in which I have commited.
And this tragedy is;
why I feel at all,
or why I came to be.
Such a tug-of-war,
with myself.
On the nature,
of humanity.
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