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Author Name: Freepenfold18 3 Comments
Date Added: November 27, 2011 04:11:53 Average Score: (Needs 2)
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Type: Rhyming
Category: General Add To Favorites | Text Only
Through My Window
As I sit here by my window looking out the other side
I see myself within the crowd and still I seek to hide
For what ever reason I don't know
I feel the cold wind as it blows
Within my heart within my soul
Like something that has died
Am I the only one out there still sifting through my past
Can anyone thats out there see me looking through the glass
Am I the only one that cares
To seek what lies behind the stares
Within my heart within my soul
And still I cannot share
As shadows they are moving gliding pressing on my glass
Striving as to hold me draw me back into the mass
Can I hold out for just a while
Until I start to feel a smile
Within my heart within my soul
A lost and wandering child.
Author's Notes:


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'Through My Window' Copyright © Graham Jones
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Comment By: PremiumDan J. Mazurek on January 5, 2012 08:00:02 AM Report

The best poem ever i read about the loneliness.

So very well with your heart and pen express

now a favorite.

Comment By: FreeShe Whispers on January 4, 2012 11:53:25 AM Report

Goodness  .....How did I miss this poem?? I was not on site for a while I guess then you posted???

So often in my life I have felt the same way...You been peeking inside my heart??

Just lost pressed against a cold glass looking out for the warmof summer days

and painted flowers so sweet honeysuckle in the slight breeze...

God I have missed you dearest...

 Please post another  beautiful poem again soon...

 Love ~Scarlett

Comment By: FreeFirestone Feinberg on November 27, 2011 06:39:26 PM Report

It seems to me that this poem is about a loneliness: but it feels like the 'other loniness' that Emily Dickinson wrote about.  Somehow, this loneliness may be one of solace -- if not a bitter-sweet sort of comfort.  I don't know -- not good at understanding some poems until I've read them for years:)  Still I can tell a fine poem.  I can hear the rustling of the words: Ah! autumn!  That's part of it; this poem feels like the cool autumn -- readying itself for a not altogether wild winter: one during which the snow is less of an icy floor -- and more of a light blanket.  A serenade, I think.  A prelude.  Sotto voce.  --David


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