In our perpetual dance of melancholy,
we stumble every time.
Our ideals of ethereal
taunt us into stepping out of line.

They diagnose imbalance.
Chemical, they say.
But nights feel empty
and mornings in disarray.

We ask for more,
we yearn stimulation.
No pills will ever
cure isolation.

I need no calm upon unrest.
Humdrum is toxin to my brain.
No gifts to replace a frugal past
but I won’t allow it to dispel in vain.

I cede all but hope
as all else is dire.
I’ll live a rogue
and never retire.


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