It
may feel cruel, lying on a bed of straw,
Lonely
and sad, and all your wounds raw.
Raw
from the chaffing that you have just felt,
Or
from the dead hand that nature had dealt.
It
may feel comfortable, with a loved one around,
Your
feelings seeping warmth, becoming unwound.
Unwound,
because it is wanted you feel
Or
because you think it is a fair deal.
It
may feel good, you may be grieved.
You
may feel you have been deceived.
Deceived
by fate, and deceived by your inaction,
Doomed
to suffer, in the hands of another fraction.
It
may feel happy, you may feel pale,
That what you feel may yet be stale.
1 comment:
*chafing, Mr. President.
Also, if it's a new start to your poetic excursions, then it's welcome. Because though the wordplay does sound like you (presuming I know how you 'sound', though that's debatable), the repetitive use of a term (It May..), is probably unlike you.
And you do know its a very evil thing to restart writing poems (and other stuff) on the sly and not let anyone know?
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