Maybe life is supposed to be dull,
lifeless and meaningless,
cruelly disfigured to the core.
Maybe life is supposed to be lonely,
spent in solitude, with dried tears,
sticky fingers and omnipresent migrains
the house you knew all your life
was just a station of the train,
You feel wet eyes in the rain,
your empty hand open in disdain
afraid of the alley afraid of the lane
you walk in jungles, hoping in vain,
heart is dead, muscles perpetually pain,
blood is thin, knife in your head, being your brain.