So much that I wish for,

so much that will never be.

For there stands an iron wall,

between happiness and me.

The wall is of my design,

erected by my hands.

Throughout my darkened days

I beg the wall to turn to sand.

I wish to live and breathe for real,

to scrap these shades of gray.

I find myself rehearsing

for that fabled perfect day.

I know this day will never be,

I grow weary of the thought,

a thousand dusty sundays pass.

My hopes are best forgot.

Yet I cling a drowning woman,

to dream of better days.


weak as infant’s arms,

are my last main stays.


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