At times I’m stressed,

oppressed and I digress only

to become depressed,

pain not

for the benefit of gain, for

all in vain have I slain

the memories that haunt this

troubled brain,

love in my

heart, yet inside my blood

is blue, like sad jazz

songs that you know are true,

oh. . . what to do. . . what to

dooo,

When you live you die slow,

each day the more know,

and end the end you still go.

I wish to be a bird to only

fly away, to run astray,

to live for only a worm, nest

and the sun to rise the

next day

 

By:

Wallace Eubanks