I used to be scared of closed doors,
Now they only bring comfort.
Here I lay,
On a bed imprinted with my form,
Here I lay,
In the valley shaped by my forlorn,
Enveloped is my room,
With the scent of angst and rot,
Because all I do is sit and stare,
Hoping for some thought.
Thought comes,
But it is mere fantasy.
Stuck in my head,
Hours of longing and yearning,
For something I could never have.
Tossing and turning,
Under my covers,
My hair wet against my starry pillow,
Under my covers,
My arms wrapped like the branches of a willow.
It is strange to be lonely but not alone,
Trapped in a consciousness that at times,
I’m not sure is my own.
Is my reality real?
Do I see the colours like my peers?
Or am I the outsider?
Destined to mere what-ifs.
Atheist born,
I choose not to worship.
A God that is worshipped is either cruel or weak,
Refusing to acknowledge the truth of our existence.
I pity the common man,
Wrapped in the same trivia as I am.
Where we quarrel amongst ourselves,
The greedy continue to grow.
I am no better than the next,
A mere cog in the machine.
One day my spark will be snuffed,
Whether that be from occupation,
Marriage,
Conception,
Or death.
But until then,
I will write,
No matter its content.
Leave a Reply