The pale light,
cold, unfeeling,
taunting,
pours through my window,
the moon staring at me.
I raise my hand,
find the faults,
what is wrong with me?
my hand, a black blot,
on the perfect surface of the moon.
That is it.
I'm the ugly in the world,
the hideous defect,
that everyone tries to hide.
Why am I here?
Why was I chosen to suffer,
and why is it drawn out so?
Can't it just end?
this torture...
of knowing I'll never be...
loved.
A contest entry
- Teen Angst by Perfect-Pain.
333 points, ended October 24, 2008, 52 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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