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