A Drab Scroll Poem by Moth Harris

Writing history books with no record or source
Oh this is my life, my story, of course.
I've looked at symbolism, missed some of the real.
A rhyme is too simple to describe how I feel.

This mediocracy is what makes up me.
To believe in what's there, I care, I see.
Whether you choose to dream or just to breathe
To believe there is something else out there
Is all there is left to do.

Nothing's right and nothing's wrong.
These two words simply do not belong,
In a world so perfect it's disgraceful and hideous.
and many things are broken here.

Like the rhyme, the tone, all that's not shown.
Alone, on my own, we all believe,
But these words only decieve, because to some,
A childish rhyme with no second look.
To others a second chance was all it took.

This is my story, my life, my lie
but we've all had room to decide.
This is our story, our life, our dream
What's not there and what's unseen.
What we've been looking for, little hints
For the thing's we're not sure.
Oh but the world goes on spinning.

A ramble, mumbled so imperfectly.
It's heaven's touch to my unmatching ears.
The sound, the screech, the words I preach
All go unheard, all go unsaid, a bitter life.
She said we were all better off dead.

So many lies, So many tears, So little we've actually wasted.
Look gladly upon those worthless years.
For they are eveything we own.