Friday, 30 June 2017

Tomorrow Is Not Sorrow

A bitter-pill to swallow
Is your sweet-self in sorrow
About the possibilities of tomorrow.

Are you in respective denial,
And am I inadvertantly on trial,
I am innocent of your portrayal.

I am subjected and dejected
And I feel needlessly rejected
As it is like you have hatred.

You don't pursue me into your company,
And do you judge my insanity,
As this was a forsaking travesty.

Come back from whence you went
And be my Angel, heavenly sent
Hell-bent on adhering to Lent.

Copyright Andrew Stevenson 30/06/2017

Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.


  1. You're right. Tomorrow isn't sorrow. For the most part, it's what we make of it.

    1. It is what we make of it. I'm pining to wining and dining my ex, Clare, who isn't being fair leaving me in a lair where others beware of I care, and as I stare in disbelief, at the grief that comes with this, I hiss at the misdirections of their perceptions of my directions.

      Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.

  2. I do hope you are ok. Sometimes we need to let other people go to retain our sanity.

    1. I'm not waiting in vain, as I am not in pain, but we split up when I was ill, a bitter-pill to swallow, and as I dream of a better tomorrow devoid of sorrow, I will wallow in her essence, an appetence of her suspense in making an appearance to my good-self, and with nurturing health, we can have a wealth of pride.

      I am sane and attain honour in I name, and being tame I will refrain from playing the aching game, as I am not forsaking her taking my love away, to perhaps sway another's way.

      Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.

      I am still mellow and chilled, and not yellow

  3. Thanks for visiting my blog and I like your poetry.

    1. You're welcome, and thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.