Everytime, without fail
there’s a song that plays
in the guilt that I have within,
is it right to live or would it be wrong to die?
Would this world be better, or just devoid?
Should this existence matter, or just sulk
to burden those that live
and those that could only survive.
Maybe this world would be better
when two eyes tear less,
when those hands reach a hold
that’s stronger, warmer,
that’s better
in the lines fate draws
to make them collide in a conjuction
that never dies.
Everytime, without wait
this heart sinks
when guilt is all it carves
in the hearts it trusts, those it cares for,
and when no memory chymes with a happy tune
and no song plays to relieve that fear,
there’s a call to fall back and observe
all those instances where fanning out was always wrong,
where smile never did anything good,
where people were never for me,
or maybe I wasn’t for them,
and the tears always dry away.
For grieving was sane when the tears came,
solitude was fine as long as there was a hand,
insanity seemed reachable when sanity was an option,
but what does one do
when you’re no longer a necessity
for yourself,
what does one do
when even the songs stop crying
and you don’t know how stranded
existence could be!
What do you do,
when nothing feels attached anymore!