Honestly, sometimes I think we are all sad.
It hurts everywhere.
Some hide it behind their half-rimmed thick glasses from which
Their eyes seem too distant
An Okay Facade.
Some others comb it in-between their hair,
Oil it to the scalp.
Lovers put it in the creases of the bed-sheets, stuff it in, but the white turns red
Colors don't lie.
You at times name it Frustration, some days you say Just Tired
Can't Hold, Oh It's Nothing
Oh, it's nothing. For sure.

Sometimes I think it's really nothing. And that is eating each one of us.