Life is an abuser,
And it follows a pattern of cruelty,
So ingrained is this spite set in stone,
That I can only shrug in response,
Whilst I try to collect the stuffing,
Torn from my teddy bear heart,
My marbles,
Knocked loose by another blow,
Followed by the jeers of existence,
When words fail me,
Or simply refuse to materialize,
I can only shrug,
It’s just the way of things,
A rigid modus operandi,
Life doesn’t pick favourites,
I’m sure all of our shoulders grow tired,
From all of the torture,
From all of the shrugging.
