Poem Hunter
DW ( / Ireland)


Misery is her name,
making you self-doubt is her game,
too much thought can drive you insane,
my poor old heart cant take any more pain.

My head was obscured by my hearts desire,
I walked her path, straight into the fire,
now she's gone, I can think myself out of this mire,
pull myself out of this mess is all I require.

Forgotten ones who really loved me dearly,
I was blind but can see much clearly,
forget the broken dreams which hurt me severely,
I hope to find myself again. Yours sincerely.

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Comments (1)

My poor old heart! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.