C'est la Vie a la Mort


I am in a constant state of unhappiness.

In my unhappiness, the happiness is blotted out

By a blank state of staring at something that should, but almost isn’t there

Stuck forever searching for something that I can’t find.

It leaves such a fulfilling sense of emptiness

That consumes my stomach and breathes through my lungs.

It beats my still heart

And floods the lights of my eyes with a blinding darkness

This irremovable state of joyous depression

Plagues my healthy brain, making everything perfectly sensible

Yet irrevocably insane.

In short: I am incorrigibly confused.

And, maybe, I thoughtlessly think,

Maybe I’m perfectly happy being perfectly deranged. 



Confused? Maybe you can figure it out. 

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