untitled by: orange

While laying on a bed of steel, one must seriously question if life is real,
Or merely a thought from a twisted child, whose life’s enjoyment is the deforming of smiles,
Into garish forms of beauty’s past, amf life’s endless dreams are callously dashed
Across waves of grief and torment and spite, but still we look for that glimmer of light,
In the faces of friends and family stills, we grab what we can to reinforce our wills, 
For the battle with the child is never won, but merely something to create a song,
That is the life we question in doubt, but live nonetheless to away the mount,
Of turmoil this child has heaped en mass, quantities of sorrow and so we cash
In our chips and lay them out for all to see and all to count
The value of one against the other, rather than just accepting your brother
Or sister who fights as much as you, but you don’t care for they are who
Left you alone when you were in need of help and all that you could see,
Was you were in pain so you closed your eyes to the need of them who also have tied
To win the war with the child undefeated, when with your help they just may have beat it,
Who laughs and consoles in glee, for you have become what it needed you to be,
And so the child was again and again, because you can’t figure out what it means to be friend