With My Own Pain Poem by Sandra Osborne

With My Own Pain

Rating: 3.6

If green, red and yellow
Are the colors of life,
Then why is mine
So black and gray?

As a child,
There was laughter.
Now there are tears.
They slide and roll
Down my face,
Like small muddy pebbles
Down a lonely dark road.

And while tears
Will dry up,
Like dead cotton
In a hot field,
Life can be
So casually cruel
As to murder me
With my own pain.

Theodora Onken 02 February 2005

Sad, so sad, but I have been on that same old road myself... Warm regards Theodora

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Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler 02 February 2005

this is fantastic. a bit sad, but fantastic. cheers, Jake

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Michael Shepherd 02 February 2005

Finely expressed. It put me in mind instantly of Van Gogh's paintings against his black and grey drawings...

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Lizzie Nelson 02 February 2005

Really dark and the language reflects the pain. I particularly liked this poem the most of the 3 you submitted today, especially the muddy pebbles as the tears, the dead cotton in the hot field and, so powerful, the murderer being your own pain. Vivid images, thanks. I am weeping now...

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Herbert Nehrlich1 02 February 2005

Good work Sandra, but I will have to write a comedy to cheer you up. Best wishes, herbert

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