Head in palm I sit defeated.
It’s not out of necessity
but choice, I think how come?
In a world of opportunity, what’s left of me but this?
Tangled in my heartache, what’s left for me but this?
Fist to chin I sit and wait,
for thought to turn to word, to pen.
Has writing any of this down, ever made me any sense?
Has stewing in this endless grief, ever made me any cents?
It’s times like this I dare not move.
I dare not speak but listen,
to the winds which wrap my innocence
in a shroud of Turin—distant.
What’s left of me but gall?
The daylight helps me see,
somewhere within this shell of me
is darkness and that’s all.
I wish I had the answer, the one you claim to see.
I wish I had your courage, your courage to believe.
This wooden desk is cold.
My heart is growing old.
I’d rhyme a couple lines or two, if younger were my skin.
Settling I feel, my insides wearing thin.
What’s left of me but this?
What’s left for me is everything I fear to touch with reason.
What’s left of me’s so tangled in the ever changing seasons.
With arms crossed round my chest, I sit in awful doubt.
It’s here I know the meaning, of four walls and myself.
It’s here I risk repeating, a fate which is not mine.
It’s here I hope I’m worthy still, of love which I’ve denied.