Playwright of Life
There it is again the discomfort, not pain, no sickness.
Not physical anyway, but discomfort so indescribable,
Secured thoughts within my mind, no one knows.
Raging, jealous, implacable wishes unforgivable,
My mind constantly churning, desire of real reveling,
Caught in a whirlwind of constant upheaval of life,
Do others have these thoughts running about?
Do they crave the ending of this discomfort as I do?
Or do I implore further understand of my dissection.
It is not evil that plagues my mind, only guilty deception.
No danger to me or the world flows from this entity.
So how do I rid or caress this placid demon unto me.
It has always been a part of me, why, I sadly ask thee.
Jealous of the peace that others seem to have within,
Separated from the rage others have in unlawful ways.
I spend days, weeks, and years forever wishing its truth.
Though it deceives me, it also delivers sanctity.
Each gift it brings to me, also it leaves resentment.
My heart and mind always in constant battle, I see.
No one else may or can vision the anxiety inside.
Occasionally I tell others of what I can feel and see.
They just say I am a joker, a playwright of life.
I am silly and full of too many different conclusions.
These days and nights, I brood over my jealousy.
I may not like or enjoy what I could become.
I will not allow this entity to destroy my soul.
Maybe it is here to enlighten; I must succumb.
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