Reality can be a choleric disease,
Obviously everyone wants a cure
When internally we are already deceased,
From all the pain we have endured
Ironically life has become our undertaker,
Wearing a mask of hope
When you're only successful as a money maker,
And in realities blood bath we soak
Insanity has become the new trend,
And self-inflicted scars are the local aesthetic
Bottomless bottles of pills are our only friend,
But then again being depressed is poetic
At some point we all reach our nadir,
Ineffable emotions ready to strike
the game of love? You've played her,
What does your chaos sound like?
