deepundergroundpoetry.com
Sanity's Rejection
Alone I sit in waiting as a heart may be to breaking,
The depths of the darkness just a wave upon the shore.
With a hidden smile faking and my lips, they 'ere to shaking,
The rage inside me quaking just a trembling in my core.
As my heart it is no more.
I stand in dreaming at the doors to the land of madness,
As the world before my feet has fallen hazy as to black.
My mind was lost to sadness in the years I spent in bleakness,
I may be screaming out in meakness, to the light behind the crack,
As my enemies scream back.
Maybe in a bleak depression, standing as one is in question,
As a maiden of indiscresion, stands alone with her belief.
Through one's sanity rejection, Between want and will election,
Logic under suppression, in desperate need of sense debrief.
As my love shares no relief.
And at last as ending pleases and the breaths of mercy eases,
The soul in wrought diseases may never fully rest in peace.
For as will and want may ceases, the heart it is to freezes
The heart it is to freezes as left in it's dusty crease.
And the deamons collect your soul, apiece.
The depths of the darkness just a wave upon the shore.
With a hidden smile faking and my lips, they 'ere to shaking,
The rage inside me quaking just a trembling in my core.
As my heart it is no more.
I stand in dreaming at the doors to the land of madness,
As the world before my feet has fallen hazy as to black.
My mind was lost to sadness in the years I spent in bleakness,
I may be screaming out in meakness, to the light behind the crack,
As my enemies scream back.
Maybe in a bleak depression, standing as one is in question,
As a maiden of indiscresion, stands alone with her belief.
Through one's sanity rejection, Between want and will election,
Logic under suppression, in desperate need of sense debrief.
As my love shares no relief.
And at last as ending pleases and the breaths of mercy eases,
The soul in wrought diseases may never fully rest in peace.
For as will and want may ceases, the heart it is to freezes
The heart it is to freezes as left in it's dusty crease.
And the deamons collect your soul, apiece.
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