Fickle Is As Fickle Does
It comes without a warning and leaves a thick blanket of gray
It eradicates any trace of sound thought with false reason
You thought you'd made a choice but those words you cannot say
There is no way to decipher what is real and make believe
It would appear that all is in fact not what it seemed
There is but one choice to make; do you celebrate or do you grieve
To answer would mean to make sense of it all
How could you possibly grasp onto a single lonely thought
If you were to press the wrong button surely you would fall
Is this a matter of the heart versus the head
How do you choose what the best outcome will be
You may think one will bring happiness but will actually leave you dead
Death, surely that is most extreme
Perhaps it is meant to be taken metaphorically
As are all your silent screams
Must everything be turned into such a macabre event
It's as if you are only capable of darkness and despair
All of your sunshine and happiness was prematurely spent
Or maybe you've got it all terribly twisted and wrong
The truth may be that you never had any sunshine to begin with
You always had to fake it just so there was somewhere for you to belong
Maybe you are meant to wander and to always be alone
You desire endlessly to be treasured and held dear by another soul
The more you search for acceptance and love the more you turn to stone
There will be no escaping from this idea we call life
The farther you swim trying to break free the more you become stuck
It's best to accept that your very existence is the cause of your strife
Copyright © Brea Pond | Year Posted 2020
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