Directions in darkness, Heights of desperation,
Boulevard of dreams and bleak prospective,
An Oliver twists, all this time.
Words not from an emotional tide,
Nor hangover from smoking pod,
Trenched it all, till this time.
Heaps of thoughts, word to confess,
Lone in this shack; me and my words,
Bared it inside, until this time.
Un-forgiven me, mediocre myself,
Pat on my back not on thy forehead.
Stranger at my own gate, till this time.
Stuck in this maze, get me out of this haze,
Said this to none; dread to face that storm.
Little-known purposes to drive my time.
Hope is not a plan, yet one hope to cope it all,
Less than perfect; the perfect imperfection,
Doubt it all in a line, Am I the incomplete?
Michel .H. Ashton
1 comment:
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Glad to have read this write..well penned..
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