How fucking banal is this existence?
Traversing the canals of this persistence.
Never quite knowing
The way the wind is blowing
If things happen for a reason
I’m giving up on believin’
How fucking sane is this world?
As bony and frail as the frame of a little girl.
Never truly ripe
The holly gardens at midnight
If things only grow for a season
I’m giving up on believin’
How fucking real is reality?
Speaking in abstracts like a badge of morality.
Never really concise
A tickling on your brain like head lice
If things only happen for a inexplicable reason
I’m giving up on believin’
This contemplation
itself
is treason.