The Sad Face

The lonely sad face sits alone; the ignoring happy faces talk. 

And though the gloomy sad face roams, the happy faces puck and laugh. 

The shaky middle aged mind inside will align with the sad face’s terrible pain. 

The sad face is alone, crying. 

The sad face is trying to keep from dividing. 

The other sad faces live away, shredding sad face heavily. 

Held down by the weight of a million hurtful judgment sighs. 

And he laughs from the sheer insight. 

“My love must be near. All of us grow cold and weary. 

As long as I can reach my love, I’ll send a thousand teary notes.” 

And the sad face wades and laughs, scornful of himself, and what little goodtimes he has had. 

The sad face has no external laugh, and feels no nostalgic memories.

They’re looming overhead like a hijacked airline. 

He likes to think it’s all okay, he likes to think he just has to pray. 

But now he resorts to poetry to weave the disdain, day by day. 

Slowly but surely, uncertain internally. 

He hates because he loves. 

The long lost voices he still calls after. 

He’s sick of all those channeling lanes. 

His brain, a swelled up losing streak. 

He is alone, and knows not what to do. 

Of course it ends with sorrow life in pursuit. 

The gloomy sad face sits alone,

Glad to at least have his solitude.