They did not predict about the British,
They did not predict about the Towers,
They did not predict the Desert Scourge.

Still, they accurately predicted,
sic
End of the world on 21 June 2020.

In my opinion,
THE MAYANS
Needed something to **** time,
So they decided to predict,
And their predictions be
Such foolish and baseless.

ALL IS WELL

The television news channels,
They are all fear-mongering brothels,
Which run on the terror they can imbue to our minds.

Reach but you shall not attain
The glory of a great writer
Never will I gain
For I write but I am not a writer
So I only feign
And now I weep for I can not be a writer
All my work is mundane
But I desire to be a writer
And will continue to go through the pain
Though I will never reach the hight’s of a writer
I will go until I wane though all call me insane
All to be a writer
All to be a writer

What Do I do?
When I'm filled with emptiness
Constantly craving connection with another soul
But it just feels like I'm on completely different frequency

What Do I do?
I'm hurt, I thought I was numb
I tried so hard to be numb
I want someone, that's the truth I suppress,
I tie up and silence in duress

What Do I do?
Now that I've convinced my being to embrace the loneliness
Being alone, that's the part I play
Staying lost, never to be seen in the day

Some days I feel like getting up,
others,
I don't.
I lift my finger off my bed, and I say,
not today.

Sometimes I wonder if people notice the small things,
like my eye bags getting bigger,
or the slight limp in my walk.
Maybe they do and maybe they don't,
that's not up to me.
It's all up for grabs.

I like to think I'm in charge,
but I know I'm just drifting.
People around me are just carrying me along through life.
I'll never be the person they all look to.
The "Imma 2020 president candidate," tik tok that people actually support.

No love, no nothing.
Drifting. Drifting. Drifting.
Some days I do my homework,
some days I can't even open my laptop.
It's not up to me, it's all up for grabs.