MORNING HAS BROKEN
Morning has broken and the day's already shattered,
The token of torment is that I've been torn into tatters.
I have been cornered and battered by portraits of latter days,
Mourned but never mattered, like the fathers of blacker ways.
The harness of laughter weighs hard against my chest,
And the marks of my cancer scar harmfully without rest.
I digress and march heartedly into the breasts of Mother Nature,
And I'm turned away calmly because it is claimed that I raped her.
Armies of armed strangers use all of these ages against me,
And history forces me into caves and then violently rapes me.
Then I wake from these stray dreams into manic scenes of depression.
Scrape my forehead with my fingers because the panic leads to obsession.
My lessons are often taken but are never forced upon me,
My blessings are never counted but always forged and empty.
My essence is often quenched by the laws of intensity,
And my actions are met constantly by the doors of empathy.
Gorged whole by epilepsy, I'm blind to flashing lights.
So I can't see the lightening that invokes the skies at night.
As I'm writing I'm fighting the brightness of my lamp,
And Im crying at the sight of rising miters of damp.
My lighters cramp my fingers and the nicoteen rots the skin.
I crying on the outside because Im dying from within...
...I am a million miles from home with my feet embedded in dry stone.
My once simple mind is fully grown and I'm stretched upon my throne.
I've etched my bones into lust as I postpone all trust.
I've left my home within its crust as it sinks into dust.
Walked lonely for hours in the darkness of such evil,
I stalked only for power within the carcass' of the feeble.
I've lived every moment with contempt and my ripped lips,
I'm exempt from quick wit and now accept that I don't fit.
I've lived loosely on rosebushes and the thorn is a token,
Bruised, been used and hopeless, and still morning is broken.
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