Disenchanted

Love does not exist;
at least, not that
splendid thing described by
the romantic and empathetic.

Now we search for something
to fulfill ourselves, rather than another.
What they give to me is
of import; more than anything
I could give them.

We compare ourselves and,
in a self-serving delusion to force influence,
coach others on how to be
beautiful, or
successful, or
better
like us.

We justify and force ourselves to
believe that sharing our
“success” stories
somehow uplifts others, even
when we spew the same platitudes as
every other entrepreneur.

by Erik Shinker

3 thoughts on “Disenchanted

  1. I wonder how many of your readers are part of this “we”. I certainly don’t see myself here. BUT I do recognize the type, and they are well described here. Very well indeed. Gorgeous poem about an ugly reality. ❤

    Liked by 2 people

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