Matthew Rousseau Poems

People may pretend to care
And volunteer to work
But after work they turn on the cold stare
In their hearts hate is what lurks
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She’s as small, yet beautiful
as the budding spring leaves
She’s as radient and strong
as a summer day
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For Liandra:
We sit and stare into oblivion
Trying to decide how to move forward
We are all lost in our own lives
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I concentrate for a week and produce an hour of homework
Trapped, buried or lost, there seems to be some sort of leak
I don’t why it has to be in the thinking process of my brain
However, My focus becomes as good as a de-railed train
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I stand at the fair
And watch all of the people there
I see them having fun
But my fun is already done
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In the Distance I see vast mountians upon mountains of waste
there are forgotten dreams and hopes
like when little Jimmy wished he could ride a bike
or how Jill dreamed she would become famous
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I’m in a decent to hell
A place that people despise
The wicked go there
And never come back
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The lost cause
the child of depression
he sits alone
writes by himself
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It’s raining and you’re tainting
your thoughts with shots
of depression and regression
Feeling so alone, hoping not to be renown
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I haven’t slept in so long
like new penguin father longing for his mate
like a cold winter
I wait and wait
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