Poetry
Dystopia
Tell me that it’s never too late
Once again, I am
A ghost of the person I was,
A shadow of the man I can be,
Held back by my fears and insecurities.
I’m merely going on,
Barely making it to tomorrow,
Barely making ends meet,
Barely managing not to screw the last of things up.
I wish being sad was a luxury I could afford all of my time,
But life gets in the way,
And it both breaks me more and distracts me,
To have to go on when I’m at my worst.
I wish being sad was a luxury I could afford all of my time,
But nevertheless, I keep it as my favorite hobby,
And engage it in my time of leisure,
Dive deeper into the darkest trenches,
Only to return with nothing in my hands.
Aspirations haunt me,
Ambitions have become my enemy,
The dreams I once watched
Sometimes, they call out to me,
Those dreams are now in the back of my heart,
Hidden well under the dead and remains
Of what used to be a campfire,
Hidden, but always there.
Those dreams often call out to me,
Ask me why I am not coming their way,
Show me a picture of things that are possible,
And tell me that it’s never too late.
But it’s hard to believe now
And I’m too weak,
The faith is for the strong,
So, I shrug off those dreams with moist eyes,
And often break down into tears of salt.
I had thought it would be easier to live this way,
But it sometimes becomes so difficult not to try,
When everything tells me that I should get up again,
I make sure that my hands are tied,
Because I have no will left in me again,
To give it a go, try and fail,
Failing is another question,
I’ve no will left in me to give it another shot.
Therefore, I’d rather accept the bitter taste of regrets
Because sweet and sour are for those who try,
My fragile self is too done to say
a word or question the will of God who might
not exist.
– Grey
