Array ( [sid] => 179948 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => See Me [time] => 2014-12-05 23:32:44 [hometext] => It is so elusive [bodytext] => Love should be told as a ghost story,
A warning to all who would listen.
A foreshadowing of misery and strife.
Love is a desirable status,
Like a gunshot wound tends to be.
When has a man, or woman, ever taken poison
To cure a headache?
We subject ourselves to sacrifice,
And when the other eats out our heart we wonder,
In desperation we cry out at the abomination.
Angry, embittered bastards we slave about,
Or else we writhe into depression.
Hoping to have our humanity restored.
Like buying a book of stamps,
We could put ourselves in the post,
To the dead letter office.
No one mourns over us like they would a hero,
A child, a mother, or a dear one.
We maintain little even in death,
Without the hope of Love we wither up and vanish,
With it we burn ourselves out bright,
Alcohol to the flame.
It's seems a petty thing to request,
Love me.
To be seen and not seen through [comments] => 6 [counter] => 310 [topic] => 48 [informant] => deadreckoning1983 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => EmotionalPoetry ) Your Poetry Dot Com - See Me


See Me
Date: Friday, 5th December 2014 @ 11:32:44 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: deadreckoning1983
Love should be told as a ghost story,
A warning to all who would listen.
A foreshadowing of misery and strife.
Love is a desirable status,
Like a gunshot wound tends to be.
When has a man, or woman, ever taken poison
To cure a headache?
We subject ourselves to sacrifice,
And when the other eats out our heart we wonder,
In desperation we cry out at the abomination.
Angry, embittered bastards we slave about,
Or else we writhe into depression.
Hoping to have our humanity restored.
Like buying a book of stamps,
We could put ourselves in the post,
To the dead letter office.
No one mourns over us like they would a hero,
A child, a mother, or a dear one.
We maintain little even in death,
Without the hope of Love we wither up and vanish,
With it we burn ourselves out bright,
Alcohol to the flame.
It's seems a petty thing to request,
Love me.
To be seen and not seen through

This poem is Copyright © deadreckoning1983


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