Woe

When you don’t have people to talk to,

Your gregariousness doesn’t count.

You’ll anyway have to live in solitude.

The problems you have don’t count,

when you don’t have people to talk to,

You’ll have to bear them single-handedly.

And shroud yourself in gloom, and still be happy.

That’s how this world works, pal.

They’ll pretend to be your could-have-been help

Only when you can’t refute.

They’ll beat the drums of mental health to dilapidation,

Post, there’s nothing left to talk,

but only the remains of a fluttering-for-life soul.

That’s how this world works, pal.