Left Wanting

What life awaits the poet dreamer, if change grew within, not lacking?

How would I have turned out, if elders stuck not to times older?

How would I have turned out, if these very hands belonged to a greater flesh?

He observes a vacuum within, if the rote of pleasantly-packed pressures appealed?

Where would I be, if abodes followed the benign presence of this traveller?

Where would I be, if use gave place and remuneration from the ravaged?

Sunsets seems so distant, how much longer? the greed and envy that envelopes

When would it end? the unfair race and cheated runners

When would it end? the truth that we remain not after end

Why must anybody anymore? try the game that killed me at start

Why should I anymore? sing the songs of deadbeat souls

Why should I anymore? hold the door for the ungrateful bores

Who cares? my head builds my idol, my head breaks it again

Who cares? the fools are blind, the fools are dead

Who cares? I rant in silence, the crowd judges in packs

Life to the poet dreamer

Life to the vacuum within

Life to the long dusk

Life to want

Life to care

I know this poem to be false

I know my faith tells me strongly to see the other way

I know my thoughts still point the obvious pain, the immediate pleasure

I know the den it'll take me to

I know the hell it has ready too

I know yet I fall

I know yet I struggle

Unworthy that I am, I still ask

Just a little more for I am

Left wanting