There is no name for this,
So it was invented.
There is no true description of this,
Yet all seem to think they know it.

They do not.
They may never,
I hope they never,
For it is not something I wish
Upon even Trump.

For it is worse
Than the depths of sorrow
For upon the morrow
There lies no hope.

Nothing seems to change,
All is the same,
Even as the world whizzes by.

Eagerly you with the morrow
Yet plainly with your great sorrow
You know that it shall be
No better.

Upon occasion there shall be
A good day for thee
And when it happens
You shall not want
To go to sleep
For upon the morrow
Lies nought
But uncertainty.

Hide it, you will.
Do not doubt
For many, upon hearing it
Would simply run away,
Afraid
As if it were
Contagious.

Others shall treat you strange,
Full of pity,
Surrounding you
With a ball of soft but numb.

Numb is worse than pain
For numb surrounds your pain
And you body loses feel
As you die inside.