We live in a world where grief is a disease,
Sadness a perversion, and only weak minds do not
Live a life of blissful ease.
You starve yourself into the correct shape,
Medicate yourself into the correct mental state.
You fake it until you make it
And then, when you have made it, it is all still fake.
You puzzle me.
Is this all there is to you?
Or do you rage underneath, do you weep
For the unhappiness that shames you?