The toil and the trouble
of making up double
the lies I tell to myself
The pain and the prickle
of feeling so fickle
while the wistful promises pile up
The signals and the sighs
of my bedridden ties
to something I cannot explain
The recklessness and rigor
of my tight-roped vigor
is a strain I'd rather not bear
The laughter and lies
of those mingling with cries
can barely brighten the day
The depraved and dead
of those long gone ahead
is the bittersweet reality of relief
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 10:35 AM UTC
The toil and the trouble
of making up double
the lies I tell to myself
The pain and the prickle
of feeling so fickle
while the wistful promises pile up
The signals and the sighs
of my bedridden ties
to something I cannot explain
The recklessness and rigor
of my tight-roped vigor
is a strain I'd rather not bear
The laughter and lies
of those mingling with cries
can barely brighten the day
The depraved and dead
of those long gone ahead
is the bittersweet reality of relief
