Do we ever meet our expectations
Or do we just keep
Making new lists
Scratch this one to bliss
Or some perversion of it

Do we even need our aspirations
Or will we just be
Content to live
But scratch that fucking itch
Or some perversion of it

And so we will it away
as best as we can
At best in a matter of days
We’ll feel it again
Creep in

Fear not nor swoon
Pour that salt into the wound
Seek no cure for self-induced
Agony
Lest you long for atrophy