the only thing that does divide 

your little life from suicide 

the single block from fine to wine 

is that eternal yellow line 

 

you step back for the wholest view 

but only right on holiest cue 

you step back slowly, surely quick 

for you are scared of snapping sticks 

 

that dotted yellow line extends 

from wheels to the road’s sharp bends 

the dotted yellow line persists 

far longer than your soul resists 

 

but what could stop me, really, say 

i fall asleep (though there’s no way) 

and i begin to drift across 

the yellow line which bears my cross 

 

i always fail to see just how 

a simple streak of paint’s forced vow 

could keep most chaos sheltered in 

when chaos rides the margin rim 

 

if only there was some technique 

to paint a line just that unique 

around my brain, to keep it safe, 

to keep it safe, ensure no chafe 

 

i really could go just one week 

without a crash so gruesome (weak!) 

without a semi rolling through 

my head as it explodes (the view!) 

 

my serotonin found its low 

and gone and gone so far below 

what should be natural, but alas 

my brain outdoes itself so fast 

 

i hold a pencil, marker, pen, 

and yes, they sometimes work to mend 

and yes, the music often heals 

but living life feels so surreal 

 

if only i could keep them in, 

the happy chemicals, i sin 

by being born upon this world 

but just to be picked up and hurled 

 

what kind of loving, caring god 

could hate so much, don’t mind the prod 

because i think i’ve figured out 

that hateful god is just for clout 

 

if one cannot find profit with 

a preacher masked as holy sith 

if one cannot find solace by 

a cultured hate taught from up high 

 

if one cannot these things acquire 

one may as well just throw in fire 

all one could, would, will ever own 

and strip one’s muscles to the bone 

 

if one had only one bad choice 

no good, no rope with which to hoist, 

and one fell off right out of time 

perhaps one cannot toe the line 

 

the blandest show with points so moot 

a pareidolic meaning suits 

my blandest thoughts echoed around 

the dirt, my grave, a sullen mound 

 

the dotted yellow line does fade 

as people come to terms with shade 

and learn just how to really cope 

with such deficient stores of hope