Worshiping things that don’t notice your existence.
Taking money from people that don’t deserve it.
What has my life turned into?
I use to have innocence, pro-ambition.
Now it’s nothing, just simplistic reveries of things that I don’t qualify to receive anymore.
Sitting near the lake, having my feet get damp, I think pessimistically, why do seasons have to change?
Staying the same would benefit me greatly.
I could stay in this ever growing pattern of brightness and oblivious habitual conception.
Enjoy my routine life without misinterpretation by others and fiends that don’t have true mothers.
The world would grow silent, curled up in this ball of contentment, I’d never have to be dubious again.
I’d wake up each morning, feeling fulfilled and loved by an unknown source.
Keeping the mask securely on by this anonymous stranger would allow me to lack growing attachment and get on the verge of deadly obsession.
The only way I could ever be in love, or loved, I presume.
Atlas, fantasy does not exist.
Only in the cluttered cupboards of my brain.
The shelves stacked high with overly positive and fictional forms of happiness.
Real life ceases to hold all this pure pleasure, just the tainted and misguided defining mediocre substance as an ambiguously titled word as ‘forever’ .
Confided I must, because without confession, surely I’d decompose, slowly, sickly, and fatal.
But most would be favorable to that picture, I refuse to give freely the satisfaction.
© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Megquier. All rights reserved.