The World We Live In
Sometimes,
I remember this…
This thing
We do
That sometimes feels
Like an infinite,
Never ending dream
doesn’t have proper endings,
Certainly not satisfied ones,
It goes far from a simple,
Little storyline,
Closer to an itchy,
Tangled mess
That there is no main character,
No villain,
No happily ever after.
This thing.
It has names,
Like growing up,
Or being independent,
In most cases,
Its called life
And the most wicked thing is,
It hits like a blow
To the chest;
Sharp and jolting
quick and painful
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