One of these days I simply won’t make it back home.
I’m already a half-hearted, half-broken, shell of who I thought I could be.
The thread that holds my fragile soul together has been wearing thin for far too long.
I’m withered and waning, constantly falling, yet unable to shatter myself.
Scraped and scared, these bruised limbs of mine carry a living ghost.
Haunting my own existence. My reflection refuses to meet me in the mirror.
Even my shadow follows at a distance, trying to avoid of boundless connection.
One of these days, one these days, the door won’t open, the key won’t fit, and I won’t wake up peacefully on my couch.
Is it inconceivable that my pride disallows me to fear these possibilities?
What should I be proud of?
Perennial past due, stale, rotting, falling to pieces yet still one.
Liquid fire poison runs through my veins while beer battered butterflies suffocate inside my stomach.
My lungs are covered in barbed wire while my heart is coated in novocaine.
One of these days I won’t make it home…
I hope no one cries, but I’d like it to rain.
-Ode to a black sheep in wolf’s clothing