Disappointment is a disease,
An act of self-pity reflected
On those we think highly
Of. Much higher than ourselves.

The world continues spinning
Even if disappointment finds
Itself at our door, destitute and looking
For its next fix.

A drawn out face
With a pallid physique,
Desperate to shoot up
On our expectations and faith.

And in we invite the stranger
Who we know is no stranger at all.
To feed our own addiction
For loathing and failure.

It sits at our dining room table,
Drinking from our best glasses
Leaving smudges wherever the glass
Comes in contact with its rotting negativity.

We introduce it to our children,
And it finds nourishment in their innocence,
Sucking them dry of any morsel
Of empathy and patience.

Disappointment is a disease,
That we welcome with open arms.
It is addicted to our hope
As we are addicted to its sorrow.


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