Leaves blow forward,
As branches twist,
Curving like fingers,
Punching like fists.
Tearing at clothes,
Pulling at hair,
Hollows like eyes,
So solemnly stare.
Walking through landscapes,
This is my mind,
Brambles so high,
A metaphor for confusion.
A barrier to stop,
The emotional tide,
From surfacing up,
Through a thicket wall.
A herd of sheep,
All white and clean,
And dozing sleep,
They look so comfortable.
But they don't know,
What it's like,
To watch but not follow,
And moving right around,
And back to my side.
I see the darkness spread,
Like the incoming tide,
Content in my blackness,
And away from there white.
I step back into the woodland,
And give up this fight,
To live in the night time,
Away from the light.
To be happy in sadness,
Rejected but proud,
In my darkened mind.
About the Creator
Spril
I've never shared any of my poetry written over the years to many people. I understand everyone is a critic but I hope some like my work.
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