Some call it depression
some call it bullshit
for with many struggles
they think it's just life
others call it bourgeois boredom
with less things escapable,
their minds looking for things of which...they're incapable

I see the soldier
eyes shot with drink
but no dinner
holding a gun for a state holding his funds
despite the loyalty in his heart
and the bruises on his hands

I see across the curb
the beggar, drug slump
did he find his truth in his slumber?
or maybe...it's just hunger

One seat over
In the mask of music
the fat man farts silently
but the sound actually had a whiss
I laugh mentally wondering if that's his truth
to stink up the area thinking everyone aloof
Waiter!
bring another bottle.
the bottle that's drowned many youth.