So So many tears,  
So much waisted time
dwelling under tormented fears,
paralyzed and comfy
in the warmth of inaction
and ennui carressing
what is thought a Soul,  
stoking a secret flame of desire
for self-deprecation
despair
and sadness
over what may have been,
what was then if only. . .
What coulda, shoulda, woulda.
Only to renounce this moment,
this now,  this present.
And every now before
and every now hereafter.
Identity becomes despair.
Existence becomes sadness.