What’s that thing called? What’s its name?
When nothing seems wrong, no one to blame
When all the screws are in place, yet seem misplaced?
When the nights all right, neither any one has bailed?
Have you ever felt so, or am I the solitary one?
When, to change the mainstream, you’d pay a ton?
When every thing is fine but you wanna grieve,
When all is good, stereotypical, yet hard to believe.
When you scramble your nerves with insecurities,
Over think your way through curiosities
When a speck of grief in another’s voice,
Makes you dig up skeletons, no choice
When everything’s good, playing it well,
Yet pessimism is where you chose to dwell,
‘The Night is young, full of terrors’
These terrors merely are our thought errors,
Our over-burdened mind, hurt, delirious.
Making happiness sound treacherous,
Its a state of mind,
or the dead weight on my spine,
Its the series of events that turned me into this,
Looking for loopholes, even through utter bliss.