When I was brought, (or more so wrought),

Into this world of thought,

I began to mourn, with wretched scorn,

The very day which I was born.

Not out of hate, (although as late,

I have begun to curse my fate),

But without love, for Him above,

Who made me in the image of,

His spitting form, and I was torn,

From the place close and warm,

Into the cold, and ‘til I’m old,

I will long for swaddled fold.

That I might sleep, and never weep,

For thoughts in minds that do so creep.

For with eyes shut, I was then what,

They call “blissful ignorant.”

I must attest, I cannot rest,

Until my sun has gone west.

For with my death, my last breath,

Will be left as “Shibboleth.”

Life’s demeaning, without meaning,

So we spend our whole lives gleaning,

Sense of purpose, from the worthless,

Pursuits that will only hurt us.

In my mind, I cannot find,

Anything that will grind.

All my thoughts, ‘till they’re naught,

So on this paper I shall jot,

Down all these words, that I’ve heard,

Everyday until I’m cured,

Of life’s great curse, (nothing’s worse).

Free me with a coffined hearse.

I will admit, I’m a git,

Who over-muses quite a bit,

And that our days, (I must say),

Are really not so glum and gray.

I’ve come to think, that life’s not pink,

But that doesn’t mean we must sink,

Into a hue, of mournful blue,

For life’s a journey through and through.