if anything
aren't we just made up of
snippets of other people
one's our eyes
have yet to
settle upon
even those we may never meet
we romanticise our bad habits
we chant them like
bittersweet symphonies
we parade our melancholy insidiously
in hopes of someone listening
they hear our cries; they know it too
a pain so familiar
it unites a couple few
their desirous whines for
the land of milk and honey
may have been answered
as for the others
bliss only blesses the
blessed