Troubled is the soul,
put on hold.
Stuck in transition,
limbo without permission.

Broken into pieces,
shattered in fact,
fallen off track,
down the not so beaten path.

Cold in the bones,
grown weary and old.
Fragile and weak,
and quite frankly, meek.

I feel for you poor soul,
for your life has been sold.
Sold for nothing more,
than three stones, maybe four.

Or a cheap Sunday *****?
One better than the last,
one with a vicious, broken past,
one picked out of the trash.

The years go on and on and on,
on repeat, like a bad song,
and you can't help but feel blue,
trapped in transition, without a clue.

You hold on to a battered past,
like the *****, you feel like trash,
cast aside in the waiting room,
gun to your head, your life is ruined.

And all because,
you never gave enough.

Isn't life tough?