Little King of Sorrows
So The Story Go
My empty heart shall fill this void,
now blank-white canvas over-joyed.
Happy thoughts are not for me,
All the same, I set them free.
From deep within the pain I grip,
Replanted here by fingertip.
Release thy smile and let it shine,
And spread the warmth of love divine.
Evaporate my liquid fear,
Leave something more substantial here.
Taste of honey, of which I lack,
feed these souls, a sweetened snack.
Liquorish trees, of which I walk,
Know the difference, of how I talk.
Surrounded not by candy birds,
that rain upon us cookied turds.
Vultures soar my sky aloof,
Their stool distilled to 80 proof.
Disheveled grin escapes from me,
as I search for words I'll never be,
But still I try, to change my view,
like the wintergreen freshness, of morning dew.
Carmel bark and spearmint leave,
this candy-land vision I don't achieve,
Root beer barrel, that hold my pains,
Natural Ice will freeze my veins.
Refreshments of adult selection,
Is which I choose for my reflection.
Once again, my own words true,
no matter what I say or do.
Even though my drinks are less,
I miss the care-free drunkeness.
The kind that dared me not to sleep,
but never kept me up to weep.
One moment here, the next a sigh,
a dreaming star, in Heavens sky.
A horse of color, I just won't be,
My wardrobe black for all to see,
Call it choice, call it fate,
I can trace it to the date.
Someday my life will maybe change,
as I slowly start to rearrange.
My poem's you don't have to read,
It's serves for me a inner need,
If scared of dark, please stay away,
I know I've slowly gone astray.
This fight I can't explain to you,
Or what it takes to make it through.
I search of ghosts in smoke filled halls,
and speak to shadows on my walls.
I know the source I hide with-in,
and the shroud of time is getting thin.
I've come too far, to lay back down,
to bask in glory, of my own frown.
But healing is a lengthy fight,
still found no way to sleep at night.
I say my prayers and lie awake,
praying for my soul at stake.
For far too long been left to rot,
For years I gave this all I got.
One day a time, it surely goes,
But the pain inside, God only knows.
Slow and steady, will win the race,
No longer tracking speed of pace.
No longer tracking space of time.
No longer tracking beat of rhyme.
So another poem gone to waste.
As I wrote these words in sickened haste.
Or so it seems, I just don't know,
But that's the way, the story go.
© 2013 L.K.Sorrows
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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