Unfolding

(PS. I am sick. I am tired. Hopelessness dwell. The poet speaks) How much are our lives worth just to keep other’s joys worth? Since we did not choose to be born, they tell us death is not ours to make. Is it true liberation to be free from the shackles of fate? Fate not for us neither by our own hands, but from and for those upon our heads they stand. Life is supposed to be a gift, yet pain is constant and we cling to our grit. We were programmed to live, but on how to do it is worth of grief. They tell us to eat, to relax for tomorrow is another day upon the rack. They our captains, we their crew. I could have choke myself in the womb if I only knew. Yet, nurture, love, care are all but a virus. To support life as a disease. Malignant, contagious. Why is it that we yearn for a smile? We yearn for laugh? We are all going to die anyways. Why continue on breathing? Why can we not will this impulse to live? We are condemned to go on. Ironic. When we are abo