I am so damn tired, utterly weary,
Too much I never said, will never say, can't pay,
Even these rhymes leave me bleary,
Get on your knees and pray, they say,
Perhaps I should revisit the dank wet corners,
Of my turbulent faith, mildly infuriating,
Like the prayers never answered,
While I still smell the perfumes of my old lovers,
Swirling winds brings memories, all daunting,
Of the boy I once was, who is now diligently battered,
By the unfair hands of time,
Left with blood and grime, some of mine,
Then of others, whose names I'd forgotten,
Yet whose faces seem to follow the new me,
Whose suffering reminds me of how,
I'd tried and failed to save,
A reminder of sorrows begotten,
From searching for answers that eluded me,
Like the universe's subtly drawn bow,
Aimed at my attempts to brave,
And escape this intricately woven matrix,
Meshed with smiles never seen, and pain,
Never spoken of, regardless of the tears,
That never spilled.
Oh, I should stop now, for my pen is bleeding,
Like Voodoo infused mannequins,
Usually found in these warped shrines,
Where they butcher me for supposed crimes,
I had unknowingly committed by being brought,
Into this alarming existence,
Yet, I am thankful, for my untethered soul,
My sorely unburdened spirit,
And these words that come from somewhere within,
That's devoid of the cracks and rustiness,
That I hide behind these weathered masks,
All polished and shined in solitude,
If you ever read this, I ask,
That you forgive my ramblings,
That you pour yourself a drink, and toast to me,
An absolution of sorts,
To the words you never,
Saw my pen spill, and the words you wished I'd written.


© The boy who raged, 1683.