I feel like this poem is slightly hard to understand for someone who isn't apt to poetry. I apologize for that. If you'd like an explanation, just let me know.
"The simple things
That give us means
Of finding true delight,
Are often free
But other times
Turn pleasure into plight.
Assumed escape;
A call for help
From what we long to keep,
Can burn our tongues,
More ways than one,
And blind us from our sleep.
A sleep that keeps
Our eyes shut tight,
Abstaining from seeing our flaws,
We find, in time,
And always too late,
That the fault is once again caused.
Refusal to wake, damnation to insane,
Self-crafted irons to unyielding pain,
This waiting for naught and feelings distraught:
Causation of strain to an innocent heart.
The future a hope and constant in dreams,
Praying for assurance by, any means.
The answer, far from
The preferable turn,
In turn does burn, cause
A new train of thought,
Strengthened only by faith and
A prayer, after for fought."
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