All my sunny days lead to dark nights,
and all my happy conversations get replayed
until they become monologues.
When I smile its only because
I've found more words
to accomodate my sadness
thats been planted in
my make-shift grave called life.
My last nerve is holding the nails to my coffin,
and I'm no sure how much longer I can keep smiling.
A coffin made of poetry isn't made
to carry the weight of the world.
Silly me thinking stupid words
could pick up the slack,
without an interpreter
they can barely relay a message.
Can I stand on metaphors?
Should I put my soul
in the hands of oxymorons? |
Submission Name: Its Easier to Frown
