I’d like to write light onto the page,
or anything to make darkness fade,
but nighttime has my spirit caged
and every time I try to change
something about it feels too strange.
In my folly I’ve been drawn to melancholy,
dismissing empathy and neglecting love
with no benefit to speak thereof.
My heart hasn’t gave way to malice,
but this apathy will turn to callous
if I never attempt to battle it.
Pen in hand, this misfit commits
to splitting a befitting fate down the middle,
or just whittling away little by little,
whatever it takes to vanquish this fake wish
to hit the brakes or never make it at all.