Comforts

by Zeke   Jan 27, 2007


Things are brave,
things are weak.
These things to me,
are fairly bleak.

What happened to pride?
What happened to shame?
When is justice fit for the blame?

A musical note,
to which we all dance the same.
The repeating of fingers,
Strumming in boredom,
The clacking of nails,
The figure less figure it hails.

The blood on my hands is the same on yours,
We killed our own God, and shut all of the doors.
Locking ourselves in,
Open to powerful pain.
Sleep sweet in the comforts,
or die in disdain.

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Latest Comments

  • 17 years ago

    by The Good Girl

    You should try a freeverse poem sometime. I enjoy your ryhming talents but your poems may appear more mature and hold even more meaning than they already do if you composed them in such a way that they were not slaves to ryhme. Rythym is achievable without ryhme.
    I love your poetry, this is no exception, great work.

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