Bailey Young/The Baron
Potential is an old friend of mine,
“Wasted” is the name I assign.
I wish I had the time to sit around
And stare at my wounds,
without making a sound that glooms.
But that’s what I do, day by day,
perhaps, why the hours seem to slip away.
I used to be good at things as a child,
But talent, like swine, has grown defiled.
I used to be kinder, used to shine,
But that child is lost in the scars that are mine.
People are miserable, near and far,
Perhaps that’s just the way things are.
We forge no lies, but night and dawn,
We break ourselves to feel whole, then move on.
I’m half-hearted, half-spirited, half of me,
Afraid to become what one thing might be.
Limit myself? But from what, I ask,
The potential I’ve lost, or the unfulfilled task?
Existence was never a thing that I chose,
It’s a burden imposed, a life I suppose.
If I let it end, would they mourn or be free,
From the weight of my presence, the shadow of me?
I don’t wish to be nothing, nor anything more,
Just to exist as I am at the core.
No judgment, no skill—just breathing the quiet air, wallowing in the shade of green.
