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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
Copyright ©
Mark Descant
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