Bring back the longing.
Bring back the sad.
Being back the things that make me feel bad.
Take me out of neutral.
Take cruise control off.
Make me make those who look down on me scoff.
For I wrote much better with sorrow within.
I could write dark nightmares to scare my own kin.
But now that those feelings that haunt me are gone.
I’d rather make dumb jokes and dance on the lawn.
Of what worth is the jester?
Of what worth is the man?
Who for a laugh would chop off his own hand
And then drink from the blood gathered there in the pan
While making a face that brings giggles to fans?