It has come to my attention that packing peanuts and unhappiness are one and the same.
But how is that so?
Well, it’s because they both seem to infiltrate everything, and have a knack for sticking to every little nook and cranny in life.
Problems seem to create excess static electricity, attracting all sorts of consequences.

Once again I’m here
stuck at the crossroads
dreaming of chasing
the dreams that are forever
Fleeting
bounded by the comfort of the past  
where unhappiness reigned free

With path should I choose
It so hard to be free
I just want to take a path
That lets me be me

My God.
This feeling is taking over.
Clawing at my very existence,
Spilling my insides onto the floor.
The stars have left my eyes,
My hygiene has wilted.
Instead of seeing the blue cover skies,
I only see the cement under my feet.
My shadows dance in the sunlight,
Laughing and mocking me.
Slowly knocking me down,
I’m tired all the time.
I’m sick of this feeling.
Sick of the demons inside of me.
They’re never ending party goers,
Constantly going and going until I fall.
I reach for help, some type of hope,
I find myself slipping away.
I’m so sick of these demons inside of me.
The drugs don’t help,
My smile fades when you look away.
I’m ripping myself apart,
And I’m sick of these demons.
Because they’re the ones making it happen.

My mind is an almost-lifeless waste
All around is evidence,
Barely-there impressions
Of feelings only just forgotten

They tell me that I will be happy soon
That excitement will bloom lush and fruitful
That passion will light these silent hills
But when I look across these cracked and mournful plains
When the rains shower me with bitter disappointment
When the winds freeze my interest into apathy
I think,
Surely not

I don’t really like to play the victim,
But I'm being failed by this system
7 hours, a hostage to cinder block rooms
With nothing to do but let myself be groomed
Into someone's labor source  

If I don’t have money, I cannot live
But nobody seems to have a thought to give
To my Life being turned into a commodity
Something to be owned, taxed, a luxury  
That sometimes I’m not able to afford.

So much stock is put into democracy
But we don’t matter to bureaucracy
Unless we use the paychecks earned
From the Liberties we burned
To fill their empty promises

They call us ungrateful and lazy
For recognizing that this life is crazy
And resenting all the thought and time
Spent in the Pursuit of a rich man’s dime
Instead of our own Happiness

you can run
and hide
from every ray of the sun
that greets the trees from the horizon

you can scream
in the night
and disturb the sleep of the birds
who awaken early to sing their songs

you can play the cards
and turn the tables of ‘victim’
any way you like
to match your game

and you can blame me
for every tear you’ve cried
or every time your fist has clenched
out of spite

but the truth is
you
are the reason
you’re unhappy.