Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash
***
How many pages I turned — I don’t know.
Simply this life isn’t like an old book.
Blunders I’ve made, as weeds, fastly grow!
Put them behind. And never them look…
Often I stopped running through days —
yearning for friends, betrayals I found.
My soul’s torn apart. It always pays.
Grief comes by dusk, having no bounds…
Sweet little words. Ugly small deeds.
Skrached nice intentions. The pen of the doom
overcame slowly by weakness and greed.
Where begins the root of the gloom?
Am I so blind to sleepless black nights?
Rushing my thoughts like wild running horses.
Poisonous treasons. How should I them fight?
I’d tighten so firmly my soul’s strings and forces…
Am I too naive for this too-nasty world?
Forever believe so deeply in people.
Remaking my faults. And my life is hurled
over the sharpest peak of a steeple.
***
Thank you for being here with my poetry. I am happy I can share it with you!
About the Creator
Mariana Busarova
Reading and writing are part of me. I feel them both so naturally connected with me.
https://medium.com/@busarovamariana
https://substack.com/@marianabusarova
https://www.facebook.com/ani.busarova/?locale=bg_BG
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