Poetry and Prose

Stranger With a Pen

Things get stranger with a pen.
I’m already estranged by my grin,
More of a stranger than a friend.
Obviously, my thoughts wear you thin.

Sometimes, I’m a lonely mess, and then
I speak out, with my heart held in hand.
These anxious feelings start rising again,
I’m no longer a soldier playing pretend.

It’s like living with a haunting sin
When in the room you’ve always been,
The one that fears live and multiply in;
Your sanity in a box marked, “The End.”

Things get stranger with a pen,
And madness speaks from within.

-D.A. Baker

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s