On days like this there can be no joy that sparks my heart to wishful life,
For perspective mars all my home comforts with oppressive global strife.
I think too much to truly remain in a state of ignorant, selfish bliss.
My heart, though cold to I, warms others. My lips, though warm, are cold to kiss.
So spare the words of motivation. No speech could loosen these muscle stiff.
No start for hearts that beat so sombre can come from Rudyard Kipling's 'If'.
I choose my stasis, I choose this path, so that of sadness no one forgets.
I think too much of others' strife. My only friends are misery and cigarettes.
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