Trying not to think so much,
To not break the rules and such,
Trying to fit my square in little round holes,
Maybe too late to save our souls.
Trying & trying, always trying,
Keeps me busy but always sighing.
Enigmatic parlance for the used and abused,
Mother’s milk for the lost and confused.
Pity and empathy are opposite things.
Misery and helplessness always brings
The wrong ones, the unbroken and the unhealed and the ******
The unhappy, the sick and those body-slammed.
One more battle and one more fight,
Eventually I’ll tell myself I’m alright.