The Rotting Book

I had ambition; all I have now is desperation.

My goals were larger than life, never to be real.

A dream carried on too far, nothing I ever feared.

Stories spun in my head like a child's imagination.

I thought of weaving threads through the clouds

before they could ever burst out loud.

I pictured the leaves without any branches

and gave them all the colours I wanted.

But no one wants the leaves non green

or the clouds to be tamed by a needle thin.

A beggar’s clothes must never be clean

and the world must always be cruel and mean.

I tried to push the buttons but had no luck with the current.

I picked up a pencil to draw but all I had was a damp paper.

I tried to swim but my limbs stopped moving out of panic.

My house was on fire but I merely watched it falling.

I was told as a young one that dreams make up your life.

So I dreamt like I had every chance for it to come alive.

But I wasn't warned about the possible externalities.

So here I am passing my days without any clarity.

I chose to tread on this path myself

when I had the will to walk away.

I pick up the pages falling off the shelf

of my life's book that is rotting away.