Irreparable Damage

Irreparable Damage short poem

Photo by DeeAshley

Broken,shattered and lost
with loneliness deep in my roots
I don’t wish for any spring
because I am tired of humans.

the people who were my blood, my friends
have changed with time like weather
and I am unable to accept that change
no matter how much I try or how much I struggle
I am unable to absorb and smile

this change has led me to the tunnel of destruction
from which you can never come back
because every single second there
causes you an irreparable damage
you see,you feel ,but can do nothing

you let yourself get destroyed,
because you lost your trust and hope in life
and the tunnel of destruction becomes your only “SHELTER”


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i just write simple lines to free myself from the burden of random words which comes in my mind of and on.Poetry is beautiful way to express feelings and emotions which on the other hand are difficult to express.Everyone takes POETIC lines in their own meaning and feel the depth and UNDERSTAND it by their own experiences in journey of life.Poetry can touch both depth and peak of sadness,happiness,and all other relative emotions.feelings are the most prestige element of human life.They have warm expression when one is happy and FROZEN STONE LIKE EXPRESSION when one in in the sea of pain.Writing keepS one alive after every death As human die hundreds of time before the ultimate physical death... i consider those people very lucky who had eyes to see and sense to feel the things around...and who have felt the depth of life,s reality and have touched "gham ki intha" we can see in poetry of JAUN ELIA...:)
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This is a very good poem indeed I have read a few times and yes poetry does help with pain happiness
and the void in life at times.

Randall Smith

I have a room inside that I can go to and dwell in my dispair and I believe you do too. I don’t believe you realize how many people have the same feelings as you do. As you write I can feel you pouring our the pain and fear of being alone. Well written.



Irreparable short poem

It was lack of contusion. The relief had not come. Hours were on after the nobility moved on faulted track. Methane was rising. It was white death: people were coming, people were going. Pure and muddy, the treachery was like