I am a deeply troubled woman
Bound by the ties of life, responsibility
I dream I would run away
Run to the country, the quiet
Where life shall be dull and calm
However such thing is boring
We mustn't put up with boring
I adore the city
The noise, the options, the people.
Yet I get so incredibly overwhelmed
Overwhelmed, underwhelmed- and yet, troubled either way.
I wish of joy, happiness but joy and happiness that lasts
I am a woman of superstition yet terrible luck
I worry, greet magpies, knock wood
Yet, nothing.
Sitting, hoping that one day perhaps I could just relax
How uncomfortable is that
How uncomfortable is comfort
Life is contradictory, life contradicts
Life in fact feels strange
I may not be normal and yet how much more boring can I be
Normal and boring would be the same by definition
Yet they couldn't be more opposed.
And I am a boring, abnormal, deeply troubled woman.
Aren't we all either? One can only assume so
But no one could help to talk about it
Goodness how I wish they would
