Alone

Sometimes my mind goes places and I write.

Wet leaf tearing through,
slapping flesh and tangled twine,
Silent thinking rests in lieu,
pain raught this wicked mind of mine.

But a lamb upon a hill,
bleating to a wretched field,
Cry out all day and even still
this twisted thinking fails to yield.

I find my friends amongst the worst,
Mill around the hopeless brabble,
until my social wits are burst,
their voices mere a loathsome gabble.

I took my risks and now I suffer,
leapt into a lake of lead.
times of toil don’t make you tougher,
they make you wish that you were dead.

Author's Note

Sorry if it makes little sense. My mind never usually does.