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.
poem by Sandra Osborne
Added by Poetry Lover
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