INVITING THE MOROSE
Most dreams are but crumpled now,
Happiness, a shadow that you left far behind.
All love is but a maniacal illusion;
Hate is all that remains, spiteful and vengeful.
The world of sorrow and of broken dreams,
Of travellers of some tattered miracle.
Hope is nothing but Satan in disguise,
Taking away the glimmer of loving and the supposed joy of life.
What use is a life so sorrowful?
I wonder more than often in times like these.
Most moments caught in sadness,
Most ambitions, a miserable excuse.
What must I give to feel again?
I wonder more often in times like these.
To want to experience happiness at its purest,
To laugh with no foreboding doom.
Forgive me for what I am now!
A miserable being, fraught with despair.
The fallacy of being alive; the pitiful joy that they doth cherish,
Seem to have swept past me, somewhere in my short-lived youth.
Maybe I grew up too soon,
Maybe I learnt those lessons too early.
Of what must become of a man when all hope is lost,
That is where I am now.
A pathetic excuse for being alive,
A canoe lost at sea, hoping this would be the end of all.