An empty room full of furniture,
Is like a mind filled with failure.
Just as a life of torture,
Lacks lovers and leisure.

A day without contact with a stranger,
Is like a couch covered in leather.
Though comfortable it may seem,
It’s just like a familiar dream.

So in my existence I measure,
Not the hard days of labour.
But the aimlessness that life renders,
And the gift of free will at my surrender.



© Heath Muchena, 2012

One Comment on “Nowhere”

  1. htmm says:

    Reblogged this on On The Heath .


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