Sometimes you can’t see the floor,
Sometimes there’s only one top or a vest,
But this time there’s more,
And the carpet is the seabed to a fabric ocean,
It’s as much a mystery to me as my own mind.
Mind you that’s fine, that’s fine, I’m fine,
Not fine as in the void between good and bad,
but fine as in the tip of an ink pen,
Narrow and thin and sharp.
I’m drawing a line in the sand,
I’m fine with being not fine,
but I’m fine.
When that human drive to do isn’t there,
Even standing is a chore,
so is brushing your teeth or your hair,
do you even care?
Why? Why should I care?
When my brain makes things seem so bloody unfair,
why should I try if the only thing I don’t sigh at is the sight of my ceiling at 5pm?
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