Wormwood

Sitting on top

looking down on the town

that spawned me

seeing the severed roots that once bound me

 

Cold winds driven

anger hidden

small bag hitched high upon my back

dark night, but the lights shine bright

 

A small town

small minded people

never noticed how many tears

the clown shed upon his bed

 

Tired of the poet dying in his garret

took his last look

and faded into his own obscurity

never knowing

 

The voice says "Dont look back"

but it's far to late

transfixed

I cant move, my branches sway in the cold night air.

 

 

Reviews

[Corset]

I read this, and I can find no solidity in them, I think when clowns cry the whole world cries with them, and when a tree groans an entire forest quakes.

[Clockwork]

A very sobering and tragic end to the struggle of living in a small town. I have had similar troubles in my own community, even when I went off to college. As it turns out, my institution is not as open minded as I had hoped and now I am back where I started a few years ago.

I like how you have the rhyme and some alliteration in this poem. It has more of a conversational flow, like an aside in a tragic play before our hero goes to finish his life.

[The White Wolf]

This displays some very real and relatable emotions, atleast for me. I have lived this, on more than one occasion, and I know those roots. They are painful roots. Very nicely penned.