sad eyes – mariana zita

These eyes of mine cry
This heart of mine bleeds
This soul of mine breaks
As i slowly die, the colours
of my face fade and my once
happy life is know like the walls
of a dungeon, black, dark and
empty with no one there to comfort
me and the one person i thought
would be there is the farthest one away
from me.Come back i call come back
but the more i shout and scream her name
the more she walks not even looking at my
sad eyes that shimmer with unshed tears.
I call her to please come back, but she keeps
on walking as if not hearing my pleas, and as
she keeps on walking into the light of there
scorn and hate, i cry with every step she takes.
As my body crumbles to the ground a heap of
broken bones, she turns back for one last glance
and see’s my fallen body, running back to me she
calls my name with a desperate tone in her voice.
Its to late though for I am gone out of the prison
that once held me for so long, never will i return
even if she wants me back.

sad – cristina geanta

sad for all the time my embrace was empty of you
sad for being stubborn to be sad
sad for touching objects baring your presence
sad for not touching you…

sad for re adi ng your name everywhere i turn
sad for all the blue jackets other men should not have worn
sad for all my weak spots left to be weak
sad to open my eyes in the morning

sad for a cruel truth not even dreams can survive
sad without dreaming
sad of nothing to hope for
sad for still seing beautiful things worth for you to know

sad…
just what she is not

a sad child – margaret atwood

You’re sad because you’re sad.
It’s psychic. It’s the age. It’s chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you’re trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside your head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.