We are dementia

To have no friends, nor enemies.
No-one really thinks, you see.
To disappear without a trace.
There's no-where to go, when ya can't find the place.

What we lack in vitality, is made up with liabilities.
What passes here as hope, is most certain it looks like dope.

When we are closest to alone - and we are alone . are we lonely?
Or feeling claustrophobic from such crowds?

Can ya feel boxed in, left out?
Can ya color within the lines with out crayons? Do we crave demands?

Does anyone care you are crying?
Does it matter, we all are dying?

Dead.
Left.
We distend.
Depend.
Upon ourselves we quiver.
All saints were once sinners -
So vunerable and explicit, yet invisible and dim witted.

Behind the curve.
Below average.
Beyond reproach. 
What a narrowed scope!

Expectationless -
those breathless eyes give away these vapid contentions.

We are dementia.
Less a man down.
So intrisnic.
Embalmed. Bled out. Quatered. Embroiled.

This sinking sun does not refract our intent.
To be.
Anyone. 
But who we are.