Everyone’s got their own thing

In the bustling city

 

A place to go,

Work to do,

A conversation with someone halfway across the world to engage in.

 

An ideal to strive for,

A pose to strike,

A vibe to give off.

 

Begging for people to stop and notice,

My cycles of depression and sorrows.

So naïve to their own cycles,

of stress and pleasure.

 

Is anyone looking up?

I say this knowing I am just as blind as the masses.

So caught up in my incessant bullshit,

I write like I’m running out of time.

(A line I stole from Hamilton, just to satisfy my desire to pretend I’m important.

In some, small capacity.)

 

God help us all,

Stuck in repetition.

Celebrating the space we have,

To roll around in our graves.