monument

Some days I feel so filty I can't stand my own thoughts
It's as if I'm simply waiting for that ignorant bliss to return
That beautiful, mundane, comforting bliss
I feel empty half the time
And the other half I'm simply content with not feeling so fucking empty
But I stagger on
Sometimes quite efficiently
Sometimes lame
Because in the grand sceme of it all
What else, what better have I got to do
Other than struggle with this fucking black dog?