I, Existential Masochist
Comatose by the ticking of the clock,
The work day never ends:
Rest is a tantalised euphemism.
With all my good intentions and passions,
I hold the pale blue dot in my hands,
Yet the field of vision never changes.
My reach and focus are ubiquitous
The pain is an introspective two-way mirror,
Yet the true reflection remains unseen.
Juxtapose and ridicule empathy
These problems are not your own:
Leave it alone - let it be
I, false hope
Add more water to the well,
A temporary fix is all that is needed:
We’ve done what we can - rest your head.
Jingle the keys to the door of resolution,
Behind which is the solution,
Even though the door is forever out of reach.
I, ideal world
Am a projection of how things easily could be,
A world in which humans lived optimally:
With all the resources, the peace, the love, and the life
Cannot entertain the thought of the ideal,
Life comes and goes - I do not turn an eye:
But rarely have I seen it celebrate its own downfall
I, existential perversion,
Hold the power but I am obstructed by what I fear most:
The monster that lurks deep within the subconscious,
The encouragement of the unspeakable
I can change it all but I refuse:
The destination is unadmittedly alluring,
I welcome the tomb with open arms
I, existential masochist
Could never put out the fire: it gives me sick pleasure,
Even if that fire consumes it all:
I am human.