Damned to Be Dreary

Truly, I wish that I could bestill a belief

Within myself to admit that I am adequate,

And by definition, say that I am okay.

But there is a blueness that cannot be beat,

A battered being that I bought, with the ability

To allot frivolous ambitions—A shadow

That was slyly cast, to burn the footprints

That simply sank into the snow

While winter winds blew upon the hearth—

And I fell… Into the froth of a saddened day.

Each insipid path is a different way

To be damned and dreary, and farther

Follow the past reluctance, the knowing

That, no, I am not as you may quaintly

Say—okay, fine, cheery, a dear, or peachy.

I am spent and sleepy—I am earthed and empty.

I am bound to envision the extremity,

Fastened beneath the lightest touch,

A gloom before serendipity’s reciprocal itch.

There is a plague that is piercing my form,

Corroding my flesh and leaving me

Feeling both incomplete and lost—

It consumes me while awake

And I swim in it while asleep.

      DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com