The pleasure of complaining

There are so many souls devoted to the pleasure of complaining,

unable to see any glittering dream in front of their eyes,

blind-folded by the group acceptance piece of cloth,

whose smiles hang from their mouth as spiderwebs ready to catch you

take you into the deep whole of painful thinking and living.

There are so many souls wandering around you with a hammer word

of stressed out bodies 

tired before the start,

given up to goal of their joyful existence without 

war noises.

Virtual images of unknown places

as in a fairground attraction,

in a sorrowful moment,

glad to turn it off after all and go back 

to happy complaining guidelines home

enlightening the path to follow.

It can always be worse, it can always be better. 

It can always be something else, but this.

Your life, your pocket full of useless words 

gathering the power of nothingness. 

The queen of pain, the queen of complaint

the queen of emptiness, making the life a

meaningful fear of dark days in bright nights