Editor's ChoicePoetrySad Poems

The Last of the Misfits

I feel vacant
Like a mist
Here but barely
A shadow of a shadow.

I feel rudderless
Floating but on straws
A wave moved by another wave.

I feel out of place
Like a wanderer
No identity,
A citizen of nowhere.

I don’t feel sapped, I am sapped,
I am tired and I know this
My bones aches like I am eighty
And my heart is threadbare, worn out from misuse.

And when that tiny spark of holding on
Flares in the darkest recess of my soul
The deafening silence of nonchalance it met
Quenched for eternity.

The fight has left my clenched fist
And the light has departed from my eyes
It seems the physical
Is beginning to come to terms with the emotional.

Tired from his first day on Earth.

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