Everybody’s feeling ill
Everybody’s feeling ill, some for real, some are faking.
Illness never travels still, it infects, destroys.
Breathtaking are the limits of our might. What we want we shall abolish.
Happiness is just a sham. We can never be invalid.
We’ll forever terminate all attempts at repetition,
Even when recapping dreams through our own self-sedition.
Seeking soothing and mundane in a world of innovation should recharge.
Yet love be damned, what we get is abrogation.
What we offer is ourselves – that is all we have to tender,
Understanding melts away till we hit a fender bender.
We would rather spend our strength fighting demons we created
Than accepting help or peace. Our egos consecrated.
Fated dated and awaited our attempts at being mated.
Not elated, just ill-fated, our serrated armor-plated undertakings are castrated.
We don’t let us fly. We float. Interactions are cutthroat.
I will say it over and over, like some funny anecdote.
Every fabric’s doomed to rip, even if it’s cloth of honor.
We don’t seek companionship, sinking our own ship,
Biting lip and taking trip to our loneliness, the stunner.
Blame the other, till you stand all alone among the ruins.
Yes, you’d rather meet another, smother everything you gather,
And move on to feeling bothered once again, as a surprise.
Maybe better to be wise.
