When the loneliness hits your head
You’ll drink anything from the pain
To be functional, to stay sane.
Though it’ll drive you mad in the end.
For a year, an hour, a moment
You’ll be feeling resourceful and strong.
You’ll be singing your own song,
You’ll be writing your own poem,
Hugging, touching, kissing and eyeing,
And no other journey you’d take.
But a dopamine kick’s to be dying.
You will know the feeling’s a fake.
What’s there left for us if not hormones?
What’s there worthwhile for us waiting for?
We’re like ever a not lasting chorus
Yet still trying to be something more.