Whynehouse

Sadness was silly when I was twenty-three Masked with a drink whenever it bothered me When my head hits the pillow, it won’t leave me be   Curious what keeps it alive inside me A lifetime of firewater banished from my diet Thoughts I generate are deafening yet quiet Some may notice and engage with defiance  A mere spark to the blaze of my self reliance Day-in and night-out is the only time I dream  To escape the nothingness of my homemade esteem T’was self-induced as I retrace the seam Dreams are for suckers mister Martin Luther King Three fort-years plus two, is the level I’m on No cheat codes, or power-ups except for my Dawn Thinking aloud that identity is needed  To conquer the beast whom the devil preceded  My mind is a television that goes back to this show Like  a car wreck, a rubbernecker will never truly  know  Wipe the tears, chin up and let no one else know The weaker use this for their selfish ammo  Without earning the title, everyone seems to judge My productivity met with a smug-filled grudge  Know this now, I will never ever budge From the path I’ve chosen so continue to judge  The smoke has all cleared and the mirror’s been broken The  bull discarded from what has been spoken With steps taken toward Him, I feel more awoken I now overlook fake-friends who’ve misspoken  Friendships lost and ties have been frayed By the judgment and ridicule I sensed every day Now strangers, not family like back in the day I pray this new path  won’t end in dismay I’m now wide-awake, crafting my thoughts into text Forever hoping one day He will grant me His best Full-speed ahead on my unending quest I pray that the outcome turns out better than my mess I know not the purpose of this rather long story Should be filed away in it’s own category Forever in search of the true morning glory But to the naked eye, everything’s hunky dory