When the sunlight make its glow,
Illuminates my window,
That is the way I then know,
Wasted Days.
When the streetlight cast its shadow,
Darkening all I know
So I can’t find where to go
Wasted Nights.

I can write poetic stones
Here in dim and all alone,
That cast into the writer’s pool
Shows me just a sad old fool,
Throwing words in resistance
Of a pitiful existence,
What do they care what I think,
As my words so quickly sink,
To a bland obscurity
Of this harsh reality.

It’s all those wasted days and wasted nights
Walking streets in darkness and shunning light,
It’s the ability I have to hide,
A living death better than suicide.