How the fuck are we supposed to make it through
a single week, a day, a moment -
in this carousel of empathetic overload?
I have only so much to offer, and when everything
is record-breakingly bad, unprecedented -
I have nothing else to say
And nothing more to do.
What are my own hopes, dreams, fears
against a world's worth of doom?
You can feel your own feelings, yes, but do so
with the tax of guilt on top.
I used to pity ignorance, and wonder:
"If only they knew."
And now all I desire
is a moment of that bliss.