My fake despair

is the shame I’m unable to move

myself to work.

Is the lack of sleep I’m getting in

four walls perched on a hill

that would mock rains.

And for a time.

While I shake dry, combed hair.

shamefully so do I.

My fake despair

doesn’t bother you.

And it shouldn’t.

I am disconnected.

I am an observer.

Useless worrier.

Anxious about my purse

Rather than the balance of survival.

My despair does not deserve the name.

It is born bone idle and fretting.

And my wasted will upsetting

those who have no chances.

My fake despair

should not exist.

But it does.

And I’m sorry.

But I’m aware of it

and that’s something.

My fake despair,

My enemy.

Concerned by the absence of trivial things.

I hope to write you off.