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 bullshit 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