My words mean nothing,
it's just paper to burn
Freedom gained vainly,
isn't justly earned
Is it mean to feel nothing?
Or do I offend?
Should I take back those words?
Should I make a mends?
Grey is the situation,
No right, no wrong.
Disregard the trust
As doubts are born
I refuse to feel
What my heart is made for
Regret burns through me
As your heart I tore
I cannot think straight
I cannot sleep at night.
My pretty words
You throw to one side
You have surely gone
Far beyond my reach
Though I am connected to you
Like a blood-thirsty leech.
You will not tell me
What it is you feel
Though I want to know more,
I doubt what is real
I am found lost,
Wondering the streets of my mind
Though ties I leave severed
To you, my thoughts will bind.
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Comments about this poem (Vain Freedom by Raven Syke )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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