There is a man
A man who strives.
But everything within his reach
Seems meagerly contrived.
He sees his world
As something small.
And everything he tries to place in line
Someday soon he plans to take
that long dark journey.
He falls and stumbles
Scarred and humbled
Hurt beyond his poor words strength
Gut-torn in the kiln of life
Hard bisqued and tempered at length.
Sad overtures drum on and on.
Reviews of life are worn and wan and still
The comfort zone is fleeting.
Rhythms pulse their daily rhyme
While synapses grind with no relent
Useless are emotions cheaply spent.
Tomorrow… put the gun away,
Tomorrow is another day.
His vindication’s torn and poor
A tool to make him beg like someone else’s whore.
Well, there is the paycheck…
So fucking what?
Every man’s occasional maudlin self pitying analysis.