The Desperate Man.... - Poem by RIC BASTASA

you were born with
a certain kind of

not that kind which
bleeds like an eye
of a widow

the stigma of youth
which found no pleasure
in the river

or that which pricks your
finger with the thorn of
a rose

perhaps you never had
a happy childhood to make you
a man of accomplishments

you have remained to be just
a child,
the most disturbed one which
a psychopath

sad, but compelling, true
and nonfunctional,
however, as evident as
a nail
with its head stuck on
the hardest wood,

there is still you in
the disguises of masks
in the mirror of

still, firm, tight lipped,
unwavering, to life, to life,

less the cowardice of
a thousand deaths which most
of the men
have desperately suffered.

Topic(s) of this poem: life

Comments about The Desperate Man.... by RIC BASTASA

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

Poem Submitted: Tuesday, July 4, 2017

[Report Error]