We are victims of life,
Nothing but a side-effect of death.
We cut wounds with our own knife,
Beating back strife with every breath.
Down here the walls are paper thin,
Never dampening the sound of isolation.
Instead we are beat into a state of chagrin,
Loudly breaching the barrier of devastation.
What is life? Said everyone to us all.
Is it nothing? Nothing but failed attempts at everything?
Metaphoricaly beating our heads against a great stone wall,
Milking and surviving from the hope to which we all cling.
Are we suppose to torture ourselves?
As the self loathing narcissist we are, doomed to sadden.
Collecting nothing but bad memories on a shelf.
And the opposing forces causes us to madden.
With good intent we believe in striving for betterment,
But the result is null.
We work hard wanting a better sentiment,
Continuing our efforts and bludgeoning our emotional skull.
Dark are the days behind us,
Dark are the days ahead.
Nothing but happy thoughts should we discuss,
Less our happiness be but completely bled.