Ah, the poets over thinking,
The artists over imagination.
Both go hand in hand for the destruction of all the suicides you see on the news.
We dream up a world of our design, and then when something doesn't happen, we crumpled to the floor, as lifeless as the paper we use.
These things can be good, but like everything, too much is bad.
We hope,
We dream,
We try to pick up the dust of our hearts, the only thing remaining after all hope has been lost.
How did hope begin?
What happened to make someone hope for a better future?
What a waste of time.
It gets you no where and leaves you stranded and trapped in a prison of your own design.
You made your cell, now rot in it.