Plucking Crow

Driven to a destination of somber disillusion, 

An oak door rests ajar and there’s just enough breeze to keep it there, 

Sobriety gains me insight yet cigarettes diminish their attempts at debilitation, 

The path leads me to self destruction no matter which route I take, 

Either respiring so slow that you see your world diminish, 

Or moving so fast that you see nothing that’s come or gone, 

They can’t all enter at once, 

Space is limited and to greet them individually is a pin prick rather than a swipe of a scythe, 

Yet harvesting emotions is a crop too early reaped, 

The crow picks and plucks and the farmer stands unimpressed, 

He may shoot the crow but there will always be one to come back for more seed, 

Related is maintenance over the mind as it rests on your shoulders under constant threat, 

But from the inside out, 

Creeping past the scarecrow is the imbalance they keep telling me about, 

Balance it back out rather than deal with it, 

Consistency is apparently key, 

But when you feed it all the attention it grabs your hand and pulls you beneath the sand, 

Take the tablets they give me and remember it exists, 

Or ignore it was ever there like a blink of the eye from the subconscious, 

either way...