The end of another day,
Nothing important to say,
Failed to find another way.
Sitting in my room thinking,
My heart slowly sinking,
The antimatter thoughts begin linking:
The fatalism and fixation,
The impressionism and isolation,
The realism and realization--
Coming together to annihilate me,
Corrupting everything I see,
My conscience can't be free.
When will it finally end?
With a lover or a new friend?
Won't it suffice to simply pretend?
You can call it depression;
You can predict its recession;
You can recommend its suppression--
Explanations don't work with the mind.
Its progressions aren't the reasonable kind.
There aren't any solutions for you to find.
One day I'll fall into another phase,
As hope reappears to change my ways,
And it will last for some number of days.
It is random repetition to be alive:
Sometimes you sleep, other times you strive,
Amounting to little more than trying to survive.
I will die some particular day,
With nothing important to say,
Successful in finding another way.
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