Why Do I Even Bother?

 

The clock ticks on, a rusted nail,
Each second falls, a bitter wail.
I pour my soul into the dirt,
A fragile husk, a shredded shirt.
I sing my heart, a trembling strain,
Not one claps back, just still refrain.
The wind just laughs, the earth stays mute,
My labor’s lost, my voice dilute.

I dig through days, I scrape through nights,
No stars above, no guiding lights.
I tell my tales to empty chairs,
Their wooden silence coldly stares.
The hours stretch, a chain of lead,
A weight that pins me to my dread.
I build with hands that crack and peel,
For what? A void that won’t congeal.

The world turns blind, a grinding stone,
It chews my bones, I stand alone.
I shout my rage, I plead, I curse,
The silence mocks, my throat grows hoarse.
I sing again, a fragile thread,
No hands applaud, no nods are shed.
The sky’s a slab, a granite lid,
No gods reply, no mercy hid.

Each step I take, a splintered plank,
A bridge that rots, a ship that sank.
The hill grows tall, a sneering face,
It dares me climb, then wipes my trace.
I weave my stories, soft and low,
To rows of seats where no one shows.
I claw the mud, I choke on air,
My lungs collapse, my eyes just stare.

The dreams I had, they crumble fast,
A house of ash, a shattered past.
I mend the walls, I patch the seams,
But ruin seeps through all my schemes.
I sing my grief, a lonesome call,
The echoes fade, no crowd at all.
The threads unravel, stitch by stitch,
A tapestry torn, a lifeless switch.

I bother still, though reasons fade,
A puppet strung on blades of shade.
I tell my lore to vacant space,
No ears to hear, no human face.
The mirror shows a hollow shell,
A stranger trapped in private hell.
I speak to walls, they lean and leer,
No answers come, just echoes smear.

The sun rises, a sickly smear,
It lights the rot, it bakes the fear.
I lift my voice, a broken tune,
No hands to clap, no warm cocoon.
The shadows stretch, they swallow whole,
A tide that drowns my flimsy soul.
I fight the pull, I kick, I thrash,
But sink I do in filth and ash.

The years pile up, a mound of slag,
Each moment drags, each thought a gag.
I sing once more, a desperate plea,
The air stays dead, no soul to see.
I reach for sense, for some faint why,
But grasp at smoke, a fleeting lie.
The world cares not, it spins and spins,
My losses stack, my losses win.

I walk through fog, through endless gray,
A path that loops, a dull decay.
I spin my yarns to chairs aligned,
Their stillness cuts, their void maligned.
The voices fade, the colors bleed,
A barren field, a choked-off seed.
I plant my hopes, they wither fast,
A harvest reaped by storms of glass.

No end in sight, no soft release,
No quiet hush, no shred of peace.
I sing my dirge, a mournful sound,
No hands to cheer, no warmth around.
The chain grows tight, the rust bites deep,
A cage I built, a vow to keep.
I tell my truths, though none will stay,
To empty rooms that turn away.

The clock still ticks, it mocks my strain,
Each beat a lash, each pulse a chain.
I stumble blind, I stagger lame,
A pawn in some unfeeling game.
I sing, I speak, I bare my core,
To silent seats and bolted doors.
No spark, no flame, no dawn to chase,
Just endless dark, a blank, dead space.