A short poem written on an especially bad day.
|Even though the light is right,
I can't help but be drawn by the everlasting night.
The plight doesn't care of the finite,
I'm letting the dynamite ignite.
The stars, the stars are the only excite,
Mind is blight yet supposedly bright.
Expectations not met, oversight is slight,
Sinking deeper and deeper from the ever great heights.
Good things are alight,
Yet I'mswooned by grave's sight.
Sick of this flight,
Can I quit it outright?