| Poem |
 
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the question by Willow Thyme
 (2 ratings)
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The Question
I sit alone on my windowsill,
This body old but yet unused.
Silence, enough to kill,
Who am I?
The moon, it seems to mock me,
I’m caught within it’s gaze.
I feel unworthy,
Who am I?
Water poring down my face,
From the wells within me.
I’m trapped in the race,
Who am I?
Nobody cares enough to see,
The pain that passes through me.
Passing through my tiny veins,
In my heart it always rains.
I’m running,
Running,
In this race.
I’m panting,
Panting,
Keep up the pace.
I’m asking,
Asking
That cursed question.
Who am I?
And then it comes,
So long I’ve waited,
Yet how it seems so over rated.
It starts to burn,
In my soul.
The question.
That question.
I’m falling,
Falling,
Into the pits of Hell.
I’m screaming,
Screaming,
This result I could never tell.
But now it’s here,
I was so near.
The question.
That question.
They whisper cruelly in my ear,
Who am I? Who am I?
I sit alone on my windowsill,
My heart is slow and steady.
Do you have your answer? they ask,
…I was never ready
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