I could get used to the insanity of life.
If it meant that everyday,
I'd get to be lost in my thoughts,
Lost and falling,
Falling fast and for eternity,
And all of the time in-between.

I could get used to the delirium of living,
If it meant that everyday,
I'd get to survive in my poetry,
Surviving; flowing,
Struggling and furiously fighting,
To experience every last word.

Oh,

Oh, how comfortable I could grow,
If it meant that everyday,
I'd get to wander as a romantic,
Wandering and writing.
But oh, how bitterly sad is it?
That every line is just an escape,

From life's cynical realities.