isn't it so painfully obvious
that's an illusion which your
wicked mind presents you
in a dish of fake hopes, on
a bed of lies, garnished with
lost time and impossibilities
and you, the misery-loving
dim-wit, devour it everytime
with your endless appetite
as you did countless times
before and you doubtlessly
will do a countless times
again and again and again
yet every single time, it will
be you, the misery-loving
dim-wit, whose eyes are
full of tears that are induced
by an agonizing, unforgiving
yet familiar ache placed in
your stomache as all you've
eaten was the emptiness of
cold, acrid reality?