Meander
Read Count : 75
Category : Poems
Sub Category : N/A
My writings , consist of the past.
Here I sit now, a wreckage
As karma keeps up its attack.
I'm already suffering.
Over and over again I've been failing,
No matter my feeling.
It feels heavy.
I don't really go places.
I lay in bed or on the couch but,
Most days I sit in my chair,
Thinking up words
Then putting them to thumbs.
Poems, or are they ramblings
Of a consisted shambling?
