By brian francis

There are always smiles when there should be
The weight of all the world can be pressing down
The ques are subtle, hidden almost completely
concealed beneath the face paint of this clown

Stress like a plumb into the ocean’s depths
a constant unbearable pressure from all around
Worry, almost my occupation or my devotion
twisting and spinning me, like I’m being ground

But I won’t cry where they can see my tears fall
Pride is still a small thing but it is my very own
And I won’t beg for help from anyone ever
you don’t get to reap the harvest you’ve sown

broken and worn, creeping towards the very end
Weary and tired of all of life’s disturbing content
the path so clear as it reveals itself to me at last
One final hailing gale becomes the last event

Copyright © 2021 brian francis