The face of a lover is an unknown, precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment.

James Baldwin

Miserable

I despise whys
Because I know too well
How whys lead to lies
And lies lead to hell

Still, I?ve been capable
Of telling lies to myself
Baby I have burned from the inside out
So, although this Bastard doubt

May seem to be a drowned residual
It is so true
That together with you
It is making me entirely

Miserable


� Barbara Bales 2002-2007 all rights reserved

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