A Dead Ballad

Every day is a challenge to myself, a promise to get through today. I might not always make it til night with a smile on my face, but neither have I choked on my fears. 

The morning starts with a blast from my favorite songs until someone shuts me off. Nevertheless, I hum under my voice while tapping my fingers on papers and a desk. Maybe have a joke or two with some friends. The day is relatively easy, but the knowledge of the worst always keeps a knife on my tongue. 

I enjoy each day if there is food involved. Let it be known I enjoy anything sweet. I'm a monster when it comes to cravings and a beast with a possessive streak. Simply put: I don't like to share.

On breaks, my ears are covered again. I pump my daily dose to my head and bob along with the beats and drums. Whether I'm in public or sitting on an edge of a bridge above a river in a height that could kill me, I'll be swinging my legs singing along. There is still the promise of the day lingering below. 

When everything finally winds down, and it's late, and it's dark, and it's undesirable...Well even music can't save me now. I have to desperately run that promise through my head, again, again, and again. Just a record in constant, although my eyes still wander to drawers I know hold secrets. 

Sometimes, an image might flash through my head. A 'what if' of my one true desire in the dark. A devil scripture to match the painting on the wall. Dripping down the walls, just red roses. Oozing from that open wound, pulsating out the life behind my eyes. Or maybe split veins running the red gold down to my fingertips.

It's a war to keep control over the motivation of my mortality, for which so often there is none.