It Feels Like the Death of Me

Trying to embroider my dimly lit face,

Is it so clear that I’m not in my place?

Thoughts of my mother and causing disgrace.

Does anyone yearn for my tender embrace?

Grinning and baring this perilous race,

Where do I belong in this desolate space?

Beaten and battered from inner distaste,

What if I die while my heart is displaced?

Thoughts of my past that remain unerased,

Who do I turn to for corporeal grace?

Constant reminders to hasten the pace,

How to secure more than first base?

For thoughts to astray, I hope and I pray,

Why’d you portray my heart was for play?

Any price I would pay to stop feeling this way.

How do I convey that I can’t see the day?