The Last Time This Will Be

Sitting here sick as a dog,
wondering just what went wrong,
there is no way to understand,
why this evening has been so long.

Can you believe this life is real?
though all this pain seems to die,
Can you believe this sad is true?
though all this sick runs on by.

Sometimes it seems an illusion,
that I should be writing this poem,
sometimes it just seems so fake,
that this life should be my home.

I sit and learn in class,
it's true I follow rules,
but why can't I see through,
these teachers are all fools.

Why can't there be more to life,
than silly old good times?
Why can't there be more to love,
than silly old good rhymes?

Is it fair that all this hate,
has turned to shallow kind?
Is it fair that all this fear,
has turned to shallow mind?

I know this seems redundant,
even when I whisper songs,
these meters have no beat here,
even when I know I'm wrong.

Sorry for taking up your time,
with my worthless stupid stories,
sorry for taking up your time,
with my old forgotten glories.

I can't write anymore than they,
who wish they could get by,
on more than just money and fame,
than life that will just fly.

And so this is my last,
the last time you will see,
my poems that mean here nothing,
at least for now, this will be.