Turning point

I will not dream again.
Rather I choose a spiritual death,
To feel the dark and live in it.
To close myself to feeling,
Taking this little hope,
And breaking it finally.
I will not let the light of day,
Fall on my heart or on my soul.
Nor will I smile as once I did,
But rather seek,
Some quiet end.
How quickly changes joy to dust.
How fast the light fades from a room.
To leave a spirit cold and dark,
Trapped in the maybe,
Broken apart.
So I will go most quietly,
And watch the lamps of parties,
Where others dance in my old place,
And I will walk,
The back road home.
So softly now I choose,
To lock my heart and soul away,
Abused and traded endlessly,
Their value now,
Is nothing.
For I am tarred and stained, and broken,
Forced to exist by kind concent.
Where once I danced now I stumble,
From chains that,
Endlessly I wish to break.
Though the caged bird has no hope,
He does not have to sing,
For other people’s merriment,
Or to be told,
You are my thing.



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