Forlorn Gratitude

A Narrative of Despair

I feel like I'm immerged in a pool of emptiness

That I filled it, myself, with my selfishness.

I close my eyes while I'm drowning.

With grief, I realize that it is the weight of my choices

That pulls me downwards, unavoidably scowling.

Nonetheless, that hollowness muffles me from the voices.

The pitch black void that my life's became

I painted it, myself, to avoid the blame and the shame.

I grope for my way out of that inescapable impair

But reluctantly I go back to that commonplace.

I've accepted that I've became a narrative of despair

I've descended onto that consented disgrace.

Have I always been this numb?

I regret I didn't laugh more, went out more, had more sex

I made my aptitude for solitude even more complex.

I'm young, but my soul is old and dumb.

The plurality of my inability to being happy 

is what keeps me from being sappy

I wake up,

I realize time's not up.