My life feels like a hurting.
A lonely cry,
misunderstood.
A scream in the dark,
barely piercing the silence.
An awkward sorrow
born of the pain of my madness
no-one else can ever know.
My words conjure up an endless hope
reaching out for good
yet never able,
to shelter me from the world's harm.
After all,
they're only quiet whispers
in a raging storm.
"Quiet whispers", yet heard nevertheless in the wisdom of your heart and in the ears of God and the stream of conciousness that carrys them on the current. No thought or prayer, however seemingly lost in the churning sea, goes unrecorded. The soul of sorrows is one which bleeds from knowing too much, but the alternative is numbing existence...The best poetry reads like conversation and this is no exception, Pierre, and the emotion is palpable...Lin
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