We must get up
to the morning rush,
get dressed,
and wash the faces
we reluctantly wear each day,
succumb to the loneliness
awaiting us,
which strangles us
so we can’t speak
how we really feel,
but only put on heirs
We must work each day
at a job we loathe,
come home to the family
we’re forced to love,
retreat into dreams that tease
and repeat
all because we breathe
1 comment:
That's about right. Damn.
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