Wishful

I'm a solemn boy 

Waiting to be a man

No one has the answers

Few can understand

 

Spent my days randomly

Prefer to be alone

I could create any fate

Though better, the less I know

 

Close my eyes once again

I can feel the heat deep within

Scared of sincerity

Hell is what's destined

 

Later is a construct, everything is now

Give me what I want, I'll take it somehow

I'm still waiting to be a man

I think I always will be

No such thing as obligations 

Easier to act cruely

 

Where is my offer of posterity?

Induct me into this world

Heaven's only wishful

Life is meant to unfurl

 

Ill die and die and die again. And live and live and live in pretend. My mind is an inkless pen, fill my soul and begin again. Writing my ambitions down and seeking a decent end. Or is my pen always dry, and my life already destined. 

 

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Januarian's picture

This poem reminded me of my

This poem reminded me of my boyhood, which was not entirely pleasant to experience at that time, but its issue passed one way or the other.


Januarian

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