Treasure Island

francesca zumbo


Addicts


All love is ironic
we fight and we plead
we beg for this so called need

we scream and we cry
we wonder Why
we feel empty, misused?

We become insomniacs
thinking of all the ways
to save him or her

we become poets,
writing letters forever
to a person who will never receive them

we merge with arms extended
to a person with whips in their eyes
we die and then become born again

we cut, we burn, we soar
i love you still forever more, forever more, forever more

we become addicts of repetition
with repeated sorry's and it wont happen again

whoever has more control wins
if i like you less you lose
if you don't love me i die.

Submitted: Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Listen to this poem:

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Addicts by francesca zumbo )

Enter the verification code :

Read all 1 comments »

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. Quality Of Moments, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
  2. her humor, Bull Hawking
  3. For CARL, Mae Ethan
  4. AT THE MOMENT, Mae Ethan
  5. Mirror - Like Thoughts, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
  6. Heart Attack, Bradley835289 Dunivan633418
  7. The BLISS Train IS Rollin'! ! !, Monk E. Biz
  8. Akungba Igbeyin, Tosin Abegunde
  9. Potential Individuality, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
  10. The Ballad Of The Cowardly Fornicator, Andrea Mejia

Poem of the Day

poet Henry Lawson


The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
...... Read complete »

   

Member Poem

[Hata Bildir]