The toil and the trouble
of making up double
the lies I tell to myself

The pain and the prickle
of feeling so fickle
while the wistful promises pile up

The signals and the sighs
of my bedridden ties
to something I cannot explain

The recklessness and rigor
of my tight-roped vigor
is a strain I'd rather not bear

The laughter and lies
of those mingling with cries
can barely brighten the day

The depraved and dead
of those long gone ahead
is the bittersweet reality of relief