After the door is closed
Nobody knows
The emptiness you feel
When you’re all alone.
Gazing through a soulless phone
With moving images
That you escape to,
To fill that hole.
Anger, laughter, tears.
Happy, sad, misery.
A process that’s cyclical,
Just to zap your energy.
Who’s really being played
When you go to bed with the enemy?
Others say not me, and yet
Their struggles lie within their inner me.
Envy, greed, hatred,
There’s no debating
Some revel in these emotions,
Not knowing it’s their soul
That they’re debasing.
In a sense their inner sense is turning into mush, and yet
It doesn’t even matter when those endorphins start to rush.
Innocent it might seem
To dwell in a state that you can only conceive
In your limited perception of reality, and yet
If for one moment you would peak behind that silver screen
You’d wake to realize
You’re the curator of this scenic dream.
So how do you choose to past the time?
What are the lines that you feed your working mind?
After the door is closed, who is really in charge of your life?
Who’s really in charge when there’s no more light?