The Decay
I’m staring at the boxes of paper
Strewn across the floor.
The contents of which are supposed to represent
A hell of a lot more.
It’s all the knowledge that I’ve gained here.
My time and sweat and tears,
It’s just a few dusty boxes,
Whose contents span the last eight years.
There’s a lot of information on what
I shouldn't do with someone’s head.
As if I was even capable
Of rewiring all the sickness they’ve been fed.
But nothing in there has showed me
How to fix broken souls.
There’s nothing in there but tiny bandages
To cover up some holes.
I’m sitting here in my room that’s
A little bit bigger than the one I had before
And all I can think is “Oh good,
Now I’ve got a little bit more”.
A little bit more room. A little bit more stuff.
A little bit more furniture to hold the little bit more stuff in the little bit more room.
And I start to feel the burning. I start to feel the gap.
I start to really register how sometimes my life really looks like this crap.
Some days I get up and I do so many little mundane things
That I can’t tell whether yesterday bled into today
Or if was just a lack of definition between the two in my eerie,
purposeless dreams.
I can’t tell whether I’m suffocating from the inside out
Or whether the dry rot’s just working its way in.
Is this a small forage through the desert of doubt
Or symptoms of a bigger sin?
All I know is that freedom can shine dull like the pillage of a
foreigner forgetting his homeland.
Our value quickly trickling out like quicksand.
Our identity stands neglected like Joseph as a Midianite.
We sell our soul to consumerism and tomorrow looks just a little less bright.
We slip rather quickly into the 9 to 5 trap
like Sampson’s head lulled asleep resting on Delilah’s lap,
slowly being sheered of all his glorious might.
Had we seen our slow decay we might have put up a fight
But the rot was too slow and our allegiance too trite.
