I'm pretty sick of being the third wheel
On this six year old tricycle.
Has anyone considered how I might feel
About comparing life here to a bicycle?
I'm worn out
I thought I would be happier here
But I guess everyone kicks and shouts
When they're running from their fear.
We're too low on cash
And still I have no job.
Why do "I" have to bust my ass
Just so they can stop to sob?
I know I came here to help with bills
But why must the words be shoved down my throat
Like over sized horse pills,
Causing me to choke?
He makes you happy for about 20% of the time
But what happens during the other 80...?
I remember when having fun was no crime,
What did you do with that lady..?
This whole thing used to make sense
But now I'm not sure if I made the right call.
You reluctantly put up your fence
Now you march over it, and all you ever do is fall.
I'll never understand why you're not fleeing
But that's all on the other side of the door.
The side everyone else is seeing
Has colorful pictures and glitter on the floor.
say what you will
Comments
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hmmmm, sounds like a place I once chose to stay, till the rent between my hosts was eating into my soul.
I sympathize with your plight, and hope you can earn wings to fly to where you really want to be....Artis
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I like this but I would like to know where you are, 'behind my door' so you're in your room, it sounds like the nut house, but I thought the rhymes were good and the poem interesting if not totally clear.
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this write
had nothing to do with a "nut house" - or actually being behind some door -
they're metaphores and this is a personal situation.
but thank you for your comment.
~*SL*~
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