Things don't go that well.
We say too little.
We say too much.
We don't reach out to the people around us.
Everything simply disappears from your mind.
You don't care anymore,
About your health, mental state or even your thoughts.
Things just don't seem what they really are.
You feel so lonely you can't stop crying on the inside.
The only friend you have is your shadow.
No one listen to you,
It seems that nobody cares about you,
Reality can be really cruel.
Being different than everyone else,
Can really hurt a person.
The only comfort is to eat something.
You tell enough lies,
You yourself even forget the truth.
You wish things could be different,
When you say sometimes,
It means all the time.
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Comments about this poem (Sometimes by Music Galore )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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