The point of life seems to be to get by.
To move from day to day,
wandering to a time of longing.
Nothing seems controllable anymore,
I seem to mime other people’s wishes,
and I wonder where I've gone.
Ambitions, love or happiness and caring:
all blunted,
bludgeoned and twisted to coarseness
as dictation moulds my life
and bolsters my sadness.
Personal comment - this is one half of a pair written within days of each other and under the grey skies of a depression triggered by a relationship's end and the start of my career job. It's not very good, but then again I didn't feel very good.
Disillusion was being felt, as it is for young people today, decades later.
Read the other poem here
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