Far Cry

When he was all well,
He felt dead on the inside,
For the world was stale,
And content became contempt.

When he was never well,
He felt lively on the inside,
For the world was changing,
And no room for content.

When things went well,
He asked for a challenge,
He wanted to feel his blood,
Rushing through his veins.

When nothing went well,
He asked for peace,
He felt all the thoughts,
Rushing though his mind.

A man is such, a living irony,
Asking for things, he can’t have,
Rejecting the things, he does have,
Cribbing about both, again and again.

Through happiness and suffering,
He thinks he defies nature,
But all he does in actions,
Is a vain attempt to be a far cry.