Life is just the façade of plastic – plastic money; currency crafted
from synthetic dreams, one's plastic love; affections moulded in
artificial forms. Too much of the latter; a toxic one's greatest trait.

Plastic taste; threads of regret cling to my teeth – my palate’s
insides churns; the words of people made of plastic bullets; still
their weight hurts.

Gazes of a select few friends resemble patient crows, observing
the burdens you bear in a plastic bag of your baggage. A course of
those processed foods; processed natural flavours – sprinkle a little
more sugar to add weight to that plastic container.

“You don’t really match my flavour,” I wouldn’t know how it
really tastes – my heart; I’d love to give you a taste, but it’s often
filled with so much hate. And as I try not to break what holds my
food for thought; I keep my dreams on a plastic plate.

But even plastic breaks, just with the right weight.

So tell me, why are you trying to carry the weight of the world?