We tend to suppose our sadness,
For we live in the wrong subsistence,
From the life, we have always craved,
The kind we were deprived –
We are deemed to have supposed,
That we are truly sad.

Living beneath the cathartic influence,
Wallowing in feigned caricature,
We, certainly, suppose
Our sadness, not the bliss.
The agony, not the trance.

Then, again, we wonder.

What is happiness, anyway?
Is it a mere state?
Or a reversed alternate?
An alternate we haven’t yet met,
Or confronted?
Is it devoid of pain?
Or is it a life with no fear?
Is it, perhaps, a way to condone,
The miserable trifle we live in?
Or a struggle to console,
Our troubled soul?

If it wasn’t for imagined reality,
This unconquered world of felicity,
Could we have to borne our sadness?
If it wasn’t for the hope of better days,
Could we have held on to the absurdities?

Whether we denote a definition
For the true state of elation,
Whether true enchantment
Lies in the next exit,
If it wasn’t for this expectation,
The assured belief of better times,
How else would we have settled for our sadness?
Our collective griefs?
And the desolate fry of our days?

We suppose we are sad,
To forfeit the weight of the blue ballad,
To transcend beyond the horizon,
Far better reality than we have condoned.