Poetry Talk

New post from Comfort

No title

In the script of life's stage, I'm the jest,
A punchline scrawled by hands unsure, distressed.
Dangling on the margins, on edges I tread,
Existence penned in a comedy where sadness is fed.

Unsteady hands sketch this bleak refrain,
My role, a punchline in life's mocking domain.
Hanging on the precipice, teetering near,
Each scene etched with a shadow, a tear.

Pages turn, yet my lines remain the same,
A tragicomedy, a soul steeped in shame.
In this tale, laughter echoes, piercing and loud,
My existence, a joke, lost in a sorrowful shroud.

https://poetladykatz.com/poetry-talk/no-title-5