the day is bright, outside the sun is shining,
the clouds are nowhere in sight,
so, why should I, be pining?
I'm pining because my love has fled,
inside, I feel an ache, dull and dead;
she left because I yelled her name,
in such a way, she thought I was insane.
but I'm meek and mild-mannered, like Clark Kent,
until I find, that all my money's spent;
until I discover that she has lied,
until I feel my brain has died.
she was a love that quickly stole my heart,
now she's a memory that tore my life apart;
a ghost that comes and goes with pain,
and things are never, quite the same again.
a specter of a song once heard,
that now seems foolish and absurd;
a melody that plays inside one's head,
when the outer shell of life is dead.
the day is bright, there's not a cloud in sight,
but I am fractured into pieces, not quite right;
because I lost a love, I thought would never die,
and I am left with the old age question...why?
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Comments about this poem (Why? by David Lessard )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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