River of Red
To smile seems so hard,
When it’s only me, myself, and I.
No friends, family, nor strangers,
See the true me as they're walking by.
Inside is a raging stream,
Inner tears feed its flow.
Death is patently waiting,
I’m drowning in sorrow.
Saving myself isn’t possible,
I haven’t the strength you see.
My worth must be little,
Go away and let me be.
My end will not be a surprise,
Too many, I’m already dead.
Death comes without warning,
It flows a river of red.
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Comments about this poem (River of Red by Mark Farmer )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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