What is so difficult about living
that I only see withering bodies
claiming to seek compassion
claiming to look for love
but folding even at the idea of an act,
a deed, a gesture, a word
any true expression of emotion
What is so fearsome about living
that wilted lovers roam the earth
alone and yet hiding beneath
lies, betrayal, murmurs of distrust
accusing feeble hearts of machinations
complaining of circumstances
playing fiddle with lust
Oh rest in peace my brokenhearted
the world hasn’t done much for us
they may talk about it, but all they do
is anything but love
anything but love
