Stuck fast in the weeds, the thorns strike

Embarrassed and confused,

if only it was just the blues,

but it's more tangled up than that,

so much to figure out and work at.

Jagged, miserable mosaic, not jolly,

slushing through miry folly,

this web feels incontrollable,

soulful lullaby cries, utterly inconsolable.

Stuck fast in the weeds, the thorns strike,

life interrogates, as I step up to the mic,

my throat is a desert, with no water in sight,

hide me, or bury me alive, I promise no fight.

One eighth of the space in the closet is comfortable,

when my mind becomes viciously ungovernable,

as anarchy and "freedom" sound rather melodic,

could that song conceivably produce a sellable product?