(written in Iambic pentameter)
Like a matchstick withers in a rainstorm
I don’t stand a chance to stay dry or warm
And survival alludes me, sipping gin
I drown, and gasp, and try and claw but never win
And I’ve lost sight of my ultimate goal
So I wipe my eyes clean of powdered coal
And blink the dust free of tired lashes
And I can see then that my outfit clashes
Pity yanks at my stomach with it’s weight
And slows my stride until I vascilate
Between the hard truth that I am not loved
And softer lies that I can push and shove
Into shapes that I can manage with ease
As if at three I fed the dog my peas
I taste not the truth, but I know it’s there
My eyes beat my soul; a relentless glare
I tell myself that I’ll survive alone
And I look at the dog, with tattered bone
And see the truth like a cold hammer whack
My eyes, bruised and bewildered, I want my life back.
