I'm sick!

I've been infected with infatuation.
I've been drenched by fantasies and daydreams.
I see the beauty in everything.
I feel the pain of everyone.
The fever causes my cheeks to blush.
The lack of nutrition causes my hands to shake.
The cure is out of reach so my mind keeps on spitting words that my lips can't form.
I've been infected with infatuation.

Get enough

Words don't cover it.
Nobody sings about it.
Crying over it is shameful.
It hurts like any other cut.
Anger adopts it.
Fear confirms it.
You can't keep it nor can you get rid of it.

When disappointment strikes there's nothing you can say about it, you can't even find a song to say it for you.
Don't you dare cry over getting disappointed, you should be ashamed, since you're the one who created it; with all your foolish expectations.
Why are you mad about being hurt? It is just as bad as you feared it would be and there's nothing you can do to get rid of it, disappointment is like an infection and the only pill you can take against it is the one called: enough.

Get enough.

Second guessing

I keep on second guessing myself. Wondering, pondering, asking where did I lose track?
If I'm in lead, how the hell did I miss out on the truth.
Who am I to create a fiction built upon nothing else than perception.
Perceptions based on wishful thinking.
I keep on second guessing myself, screamingly questioning why I didn't leave it when I thought it was left.
I keep on second guessing, madly asking why the truth isn't a solution, is there even one?

To be able to second guess one must be aware of another option, an option I failed to comprehend.

So I keep on second guessing.