Alone again inside it seems.
With plastic friends and broken dreams.
I sit in empty darkness beyond measure.
Today just like so many things.
Has ended lost and incomplete.
I failed to reach the special place I treasure.
True happiness is what I seek.
Still I remain a lucid freak.
I write of life with no real love or pleasure.
I write because if I would scream.
No one would hear the words from me.
I'm lost inside this dark cold world forever.
Comments about this poem (Still by Mark Normand )
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