Grey

What turns a man into a poet?
Faith, pain and suffering, a nervess tik, or is he just being stoic? At somepoint he developes an ego we call pride and builds himself up to get crushed like a fritto or hit by the incoming tide. He picks himself back up thinking he can fix his mistake looking for guidence but no one can relate. Relising that all his effort was for naught and the cheers were fake. Wondering where time went, how long did it take? My brain hurts and now i have a headache making it hard to contiplate. Where do i stand do i want my toes at the beach in the sand or do i want a beating heart in my hand? What direction is correct? How will i not fret? Lifes a gamble and im throwing in my bet. Trapped in a cage of my own creation forged from the fires of my desperasion. A whirlwind of my design, fractured and yet never runs out of time. Like an alarm you've thrown at the wall im attached by the red string of fate. Im doomed to fall after all. I pick myself back up to try again hoping for the day i see the way. But until then i will see the world as, grey.