And here I am yet again,
Waiting at the door,
melancholy no more,
begging for freedom,
picking the scenery apart,
down to the bone.

Cool purples and blues,
play in the night,
I know now what's
behind me,
I know not what's in my sight.

I wear grief like a look,
on the edge of freedom
begging to be let loose,

but

staying in the house,
imagining freedom,
rather than face
the disappointment
that it truly is.

Think between drags of a cigarette,
do I dare excite myself?
Or drown the hope
before it drowns me?

No time for deep breaths here,
just existence
on a celestial plane.

.
.
.

And here I am yet again,
Waiting at the door,
melancholy no more...