An excuse for all my dishonest replies

With no objective way left to think; once I became a part of my life

none of my opinions about my life matter anymore

with no intent of these words making any sense

just like how most times my reflection is more important than  me

or how I enjoy the imaginary company of every real person I have ever met

it shouldn’t make sense

but only hatred feels home – blurring the lines of distinction

my illusions avoid me from seeing so much that I feel I have been disillusioned

i simply can’t make sense of any form of affinity

– everything seems to have a reason and I, like most in this age, am a child of romanticism

(just like these disjointed lines which try so hard to seem ‘poetic’)

for any action taken, word spoken, tap left leaking, child neglected – if there is a reason

it is an illusion – as much a subject to my acceptance as to my scorn