I feel every ounce of sympathy
pouring over everything that was-
or maybe was not.
I feel it burning my soul during my sleep.
It's crawling up my spine,
sending shivers down my bones.
I feel every ounce of sympathy
for everything that could have been-
or at least what I hope it would be.
It's sneaking up from behind. It's whispering beside my ear, it's telling me something I cannot bear.
But Sympathy is telling me to be at ease.
It's telling me this is what should be.
This is the only possibility.
But I'm not sure. I'm not sure anymore.
Sympathy is telling me to care. Sympathy is telling me to cry at night. It's telling me to pour every emotion that I have left upon your miserable shell. It's telling me to sob, to weep, to burst out my feelings.
But it's gone. It's been long gone. And I'm starting to go my own way. We had suffered so many blank stares, and it died together with hope. It's gone. It won't ever come back.
But Sympathy is telling me there is an afterlife.
YOU ARE READING
Trinkets
PoetryIf you want to read without the commitment, this is the perfect book for you. You can open it and read a few excerpts once in a while, or you can read it in one go. The entries here have various themes which may confuse readers as it confused the wr...
