It’s A Certain Sort of Sadness

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That wells up inside–
Here now; gone tomorrow,
And here again unannounced.

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That all I could do is stare–
Wonder why, and how,
Is there something I found wanting?

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That fills my palm with pain of loss–
A stab to the heart and numbness down my feet,
Will I ever get used to it?

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That I’ll never quite get fond of–
Not the kind that makes me seek solitude,
Recourse or rest.

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That sends chills down my arms–
A coldness in my core,
A flame burning in my heart.

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That fills me with nothingness–
Not choler, or ire,
Not melancholy, or despait.

It’s a certain sort of sadness.

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