Now writing my endless words;
Tame, is enjoyment.
Scratching out exercises without purpose,
No soul behind them.
Oh, I ache to be away...
Removed from squalor parading
As knowledge and beauty.
For here, in this square of tables
Beauty is poison,
Numbing slowly,
Leaveing one hanging onto nothing but paper.
The consuming years have laid to waste
My once blossoming childhood.
Cannot my existence be used
For something other than grandiose subterfuge?
These problems grow in volume
Gathering tangible form;
Yet, my loved ones move steadily away,
Finding other paths to like moments.
Ah! The allotted time draws to a close.
Finally the pen can slip back into its pouch.
