PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Pounding my fist through this wall,

I’m insignificant I feel so small.

This pain I endure is all in vain,

This hacksaw of tribulation will not cut the chain.



The blood pours through pools on the floor,

All that I lose, all they take never settles the score.

These crimson tears drain not from my eyes,

These conveyances of hate, blood has run dry.



The pool turning gray from shards,

They fly through the air reopening these scars.

The thuds against the wall the tear of this sinew,

Its dulcet ways keep this struggle true.



But why do I fuel this battle?

The mason will mend the hole.

The doctor will set my bone.

I will go back home.