With My Own Pain

If green, red and yellow
Are the colors of life,
Then why is mine
So black and gray?

As a child,
There was laughter.
Now there are tears.
They slide and roll
Down my face,
Like small muddy pebbles
Down a lonely dark road.

And while tears
Will dry up,
Like dead cotton
In a hot field,
Life can be
So casually cruel
As to murder me
With my own pain.

by Sandra Osborne

Comments (5)

Sad, so sad, but I have been on that same old road myself... Warm regards Theodora
this is fantastic. a bit sad, but fantastic. cheers, Jake
Finely expressed. It put me in mind instantly of Van Gogh's paintings against his black and grey drawings...
Really dark and the language reflects the pain. I particularly liked this poem the most of the 3 you submitted today, especially the muddy pebbles as the tears, the dead cotton in the hot field and, so powerful, the murderer being your own pain. Vivid images, thanks. I am weeping now...
Good work Sandra, but I will have to write a comedy to cheer you up. Best wishes, herbert