All I’ve been yearning for is,
To be like my old self again.
Much less flawed than before.
Although nothing in this world is perfect,
It’s all that’s left to strive for.
Friends I don’t have,
Alone I am,
With a poem in my hands!
What else should I be doing with my time in a world refusing to understand…
How much it mutilates my smile into a stare as blank as,
My canvas exhaustively waiting for my attention…
It’s out of my control.
I know I’m often remote,
I’m hoping others become aware of how my buttons are pressed when around another soul.
How I feel each bit of melancholy coursing through violent airstream blown into the atmosphere by our piercing regrets.
How I witness a plethora of glass homes inevitably shatter after stones are thrown from each side of their fences.
It’s so damn heartbreaking!…
Loving from a distance is my only option as of this moment,
As I trickle every bit of zeal and passion coursing through my veins within every poem.
Written with a palm scarred by battles I pray all others can avoid by reading my agrarian story.
A story only I could write if,
I choose to be,