Impulse is the lord of the dead

he contemplates and

     ABRUPTLY

he snaps his cold hand through our friend’s chest,

taking their soul

Insanity is the routine of the repeated

redundantly repeating the repetitions of our day

redundantly repeating the repetitions of our day

captivating and killing us through shattering

the glass of life with an unexpected rock

Isolation is the throne which all of us sit upon

as we await for the buzzer to our cold padded room to ring

and feel the desolate steel chair wrap it’s cold grasp around our legs

and cover our ears so we miss the next ring

making us feel more alone, even though the people outside keep ringing and ringing

But worst of all, is Hope

the dreaded rose which we all carry with us

allowing it to shred our hands with its poisoned thorns

but instead of letting go, we only tighten our grip

until it slices right through our hand and we have no choice but to drop the rose

losing hope

Lost in this foul abyss of such feral beasts known as impulse, insanity, isolation, and hope

we have no choice but to be happy

its expected of us when we walk outside to see the sun shine on our neighbor’s face

We know the sun is shining

and that we’ve got to get ready for a brand new day.

Except we’re never ready.