Here I am- still incomplete,
devastated by defeat,
pointlessly these words I wright
just to maintain, this written fight.
My writings before, which I now read,
seem to mock me with their speed...
Why, on earth, do I choose this?
There's clearly no synthetic bliss.
So couplets here leak out of me,
an idiotic tragedy
who now can I come to be?
when I keep myself from growing free.
With stupid serendipity,
I chant this foolish melody

as if everything was alright.