Jester

I woke up without energy.  
It wasn't supposed to be my day,  
nor was it ever meant to be.  
   
Though my senses speak;    
'my enemy',  
ensures I'll preferably -yet again-    
outlive the end of me.  
   
My sanity was a long-distanced    
back-stabbing friend of me.  
   
A parody.  
   
Of whatever this madness claimed to be.  
Wrecklessly a mint-appraised posh vanity.  
   
Bent to be.  
Lend to fret.  
   
An experience I'm not allowed to forget,  
yet always treasure.  
Shortened but sweet,  
outweighed by a tape measure,  
outran by mere athletes.  
   
Stay away from the sun, Icarus.  
Portray parlay by blunt vigorous blaze    
upon plain stunned and shunned wickedness.  
Raise our son to heights never faced by  
men, let alone joint lyricists.  
   
My pain coals my pencil.  
Thick rains stall my 'when' still.  
When will I blend in the stencils?  
Will my blood be stenched with    
a men's frill?  
   
Stood up, straightened my back but bent still...  
This knife I'd like to sink is but a utensil.  
This leak prevenst my heart-fill.  
Leeches fuell this landfill  
of hope.  
   
Screeches fill this opera of soap.  
A rope seems mandatory inventory.  
   
I yearn to joke...  
   
But alas the Jester chants awoke.