"*******!" screamed the drunken poet stumbling into the door with a half smoked cigarette in one hand and a coffee stained journal in the other

I asked why I wasn't worth the effort and you asked me if it was a rhetorical question,
Rain will fall and fill in the gaps we leave for space to make a home,
The clouds will crowd above our heads to choose between regret and anger; which will make our day more miserable,
We will collapse under the pressure of trying harder than anyone ever has for the things we hold near and dear to us,

A society dying of emotional asphyxiation,
Warmongers threatening the very last thing keeping them from falling off the edge,
Innocence showcased through picking flowers and sharing smiles,
We are broken and we are picking up the pieces one cut at a time,

Gutting the stomachs of lovers and creating sculptures in memory of the undeserving,
Setting fire to everything we're used to in order to create room for the risks we finally aren't afraid to take because of the exhaustion pulling us as far down as we can possibly go,

We sure are a mess, but at least we're giving it our best
Distressed and lost, only hoping to find ourselves in one another,
I want to get as lost as possible, that way I will feel confusion once again; at this point I am used to knowing everything before it even happens,
Or maybe that's just my anxiety making me create situations that haven't even happened yet,
Or maybe I really am a mess,
Or maybe I just need to be told it's okay,
Or maybe I need to embrace the fact that I'm a madman with a twisted messiah complex

All I know is that at the end of the day, I spill my coffee just as much as you do,
I smoke as many cigarettes as I need to,
I find happiness in everything before my sadness does,
I sure am a mess, but at least I am giving it my best,
I am alive, so I might as well live