I wrote this in 2017 during my great depression.

I want to write about love

But instead find myself 

Writing about depression and loss

Everything feels so vague and fake

I don’t know what or who’s 

Real anymore

Is it existential dread 

Or a midlife crises 

Or a mixture of both?

Living in a world rampant

 With comparisons 

   With the click of a button

Tears at my soul

Thanks to the ridiculous 

And never ending standards 

Modern society thrusts upon us.

It’s all a constant competition 

About who has the best life

Have we all become society’s 

Attention whores?

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