3 New Sad Poems: Solitude, Flower of May, and Sleep by Teresita Blanco

3 New Sad Poems: Solitude, Flower of May, and Sleep by Teresita Blanco

Editor's Note: Here are my next three poems. The solitude poem is about solitude. I played around with a weird rhythm scheme. I like to combine "solitude" with "interlude". The "ant" sounding words are a bit of a pain. Originally, "The Flower of May" poem was titled "Persephone". However, I opted for the flower titled because it sounded better. The last poem I wrote it in a sleepless night. I like the "son" rhyming words. They sound really cool. Think about it, crimson, prison, risen... Don't they sound amassing? I think that is everything worth mentioning about these three poems. I hope that you like them a lot. Now that I think about it, I should have titled the Persephone poem, the Mayflower. What a pain...

Solitude 
by Teresita Blanco

Another day wasted,

This solitude

Knows no interlude.

It is ever vigilant;

It is ever constant.

This cursed solitude

Is my only food.

Many days, wasted.

Night spent in agony.

Waking up to reality. 

Flower of May
by Teresita Blanco

Solemn, dull and gray

Goes the flower of may.

Why so solemn, pretty flower?

Is today your final hour?

Only yesterday, you rose

From beneath “his” shadow.

Yet, your gaze remains hollow.

A prisoner of his force,

You still remain,

The freedom you gained

Is but a passing moment.

Tomorrow, the earth beckons.

Each passing second,

Is but an eternal torment.

You quicken your pace.

Yet, you still remain chained.

Behold, that haggard face

Has risen, once again.

The day has turned to night.

Time to relive winter’s fright.

 

Sleep
by Teresita Blanco

Sleep seems so far away.

As I sit here,

Writing pages

That no mortal eyes

Will ever see.

The sun has risen,

It’s all bright, crimson.

Ah! My mind is blank,

Void and empty.

I see my thoughts drift

Slowly…slow…ly.

Sleep never seemed so far away.

As I sit here thinking, sinking.

Half asleep, not fully awake,

This city lives and vibrates.

Full of empty faces.

Copyright Teresita Blanco

You do not have permission to use my poems without my express written consent.