Sitting here, alone...
I find small comfort in the monotonous rhythm of the day.
Thinking on paper, wishing in my head.
Giving up a little more each time, giving up a little more each day.
I wonder if they'll ever know, wonder if they even care.
Drawn to conclusion, amidst a plague of truth, I find myself.
Never before had I realized,
disgusted, repelled at the idea.
Sitting here, alone...
I see very little where there is an abundance.
Sitting here, I begin to feel useless, & even more alone.
And sitting here, I am reminded of my losses & of my fears.
Siting here is all I do, all I've done is sat.
Just sitting here is driving me crazy.
Just sitting here has made me care.
So why in God's name am I still sitting here?
Copyright copy;2005;
Chadwick William Lee
Writing is like releasing a scream you've been holding in for too long. It's therapy, in every way shape and form. Poetry is for describing moments the best you can so they speak to the heart, and fiction is almost never all fiction.
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