I'll carve a special little niche, safe from the perils of life, where I can make a place for hope. First, I need to find a knife.

Or, am I inconsequential to it all? A random, forgettable moment in your delicate, pastel existence?

Shock no thinking just decide. Rage from nowhere down inside. Sensing ruin, cannot tell, kill the threat or run like hell?

Even the happiest fall prey to the plastic, the vacuous virtual. And some little voice keeps whispering to us 'There’s something wrong here.

That is the best, for sure—to psychologically manipulate someone in such a way that they are unable to decide if they have just been commendedor brilliantly deprecated.

Even when dreaming I'm falling so fast, then waking last-second, eyes wide. And feeling, after the terror has passed, a little emptier inside.

Hoping, dreaming on I stray to her smile, a world away. Love unfulfilled, I rise and a world away, she cries.

Maybe you are amazing and beautiful. I just can't see it anymore.

Where is this fraud called hope? Tell me how would it feel? Why does it evade me? I have no faith it's real.