Meh, old poem I made.
It doesn't rhyme,

Awkward Solitude

This year is old like a dying father,
Who's will was out of spite.
I wish I was fit, to take your breath,
And exhale a resolution.
I want to be fit,
To sing-along with a pair of sunset lungs.
Now I'm just sprouting in the Sahara,
As the course of my fingers trail off from the glow of my arrival.
Here I stand,
Out with separate agendas.

It's odd,
We point to design,
Still our chests swell,
We'll never find
True answers from a wishing well.
Parody of an angel
Miles above the sea
I hear the voice of reason
Screaming after me
"You've flown far too high boy now you're too close to the sun,
Soon your makeshift wings will come undone"

x3