Joseph was somebody's lover Now he sits upon his bed His eyes cast out the shattered window Veins of dirt across his head Joseph was somebody's brother Now he sits in a phantom heap If he can't be seen, he'll be heard And screams into the mid-summer heat Joseph lights his cigarette He sees the smoke has more life than he He flicks the ashes, lets it fall And stares at the dust on his feet Joseph doesn't like to be single He hates more so to be alone Beads of lonliness form on his brow He does not call this his home Joseph was stationed on his own post Joseph traded money for his life Joseph could buy no redemption though he was never one to criticise.
Reason for writing:
I don't think there really HAS to be a real reason to
write poetry. Sometimes a vision, a situation, or just one single emotion gives rise to excellent poetry.
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Starluck, Scorpio.