Melancholy Syndrome

Downing a bottle of Moscato, I find it harder not to feel hollow

Swallowed by the bitter cold, mid-December, void of embers in my little soul

Just a boy huddled up looking for some warmth

Bundled under covers, head is pointed towards the north

Looking to the moon, monsoon of doom ensues

Dread flooding my head, palms pinkish-red, clutching my bed

Crying silently, locked in my room like my feelings inside of me

My composure I can barely keep it, hiding behind the darkest secrets

Clothes piled for miles, numb to everything around

Staring into the abyss expressionless, unread messages

Time melting, molding my casket, mold and molasses,

Over my ashes, maybe I’m overreacting, but the chip on my shoulder keeps cracking

Lacking motivation, mourning the good old days

Now I’m just a worker bee with no place to put my rage

A thousand poems and I’ve yet to find the words, mindless blurbs

I’ve become the sad metaphor I’ve been looking for

Lose myself, in a game, in a show, in a porno, I don’t know

Where I’m going, I’m just zoning, zombified by a screen

Through my teens, through my twenties, through and through, who are you?

I ask myself without conclusions to,

Answers I’ve been searching for, certain scores

Settle like turning soil, others like burning oil

That’s why I don’t leave this place, back to sleep

Repeat the race, do I actually need to wake?

Toss and turn the ceiling sees my face, serenades to ease my pain

Conversations with myself lend as my only friend

Lonely grin, laugh it off, pretend I don’t feel bad at all

Exhaustion, is running circles around my eyes too often

Maybe I’m better off offin’, maybe I’m better off,

dead.