...rumblings of a troubled mind...
So once again here I am
Seated alone myself with I,
Pondering about the things I deem deep,
Things that rest in my soul
That linger on in my mind many a time,
I jot them down in this rugged rhyme
To myself I look as though upon a mirror
And realise that life is but one big misdemeanor,
That the things I deem deep and ponder so about
are the same things that eat me up inside
causing me to open my big mouth and pout,
Whining and wishing that I were somewhere besides
this hedious hole of a place called earth.
Poetically speaking I feel like upon myself I should be spitting,
Perhaps a hollow pipe from my chest to mouth
and I there sucking my heart out,
But then I sit and ponder about the things I deem deep
and wonder myself to I, asking myself the age old question
that never quite finds an answer, 'why am i here?'
Why, sitted upon this seat, my arms upon this table,
my fingers dwindling this pen, my eyes moving to and fro
across this piece of white paper...
And then it occurs to me,
that the things I deem deep and ponder so about
are but mere machinations of the mind that
creep into the core of my heart and Alas!
A troubled soul I am.
Poetry by kip
Read 690 times
Written on 2006-04-27 at 12:02
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...Troubled...
So once again here I am
Seated alone myself with I,
Pondering about the things I deem deep,
Things that rest in my soul
That linger on in my mind many a time,
I jot them down in this rugged rhyme
To myself I look as though upon a mirror
And realise that life is but one big misdemeanor,
That the things I deem deep and ponder so about
are the same things that eat me up inside
causing me to open my big mouth and pout,
Whining and wishing that I were somewhere besides
this hedious hole of a place called earth.
Poetically speaking I feel like upon myself I should be spitting,
Perhaps a hollow pipe from my chest to mouth
and I there sucking my heart out,
But then I sit and ponder about the things I deem deep
and wonder myself to I, asking myself the age old question
that never quite finds an answer, 'why am i here?'
Why, sitted upon this seat, my arms upon this table,
my fingers dwindling this pen, my eyes moving to and fro
across this piece of white paper...
And then it occurs to me,
that the things I deem deep and ponder so about
are but mere machinations of the mind that
creep into the core of my heart and Alas!
A troubled soul I am.
Poetry by kip
Read 690 times
Written on 2006-04-27 at 12:02
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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