PoetrySad Poems


her fingers dug into his back like needle through fabric, such intense pleasure tainted by pain.
individual yet intertwined
like fiber interwoven to form thread they adorn the ensemble that is life herself
like cameras that trap time, sad and pleasant alike
they remind you of moments, of glory and of condemnation
when hope floats from heavens door by a spiders thread
hope so fragile that holding on tightly would break it
but clench loosely and it would slip away
tell me then, what must I do to obtain balance?
to live, not driven mad by pleasure nor broken by pain
what must I do, to truly be…?

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