Life...

A thing that once lived,
An object that had a chance to change,
A world that doesn't acknowledge the beauty within,
A world that is so clichéd that it dies with each sighs on it,
Can't move on from the stupid insignificant cycles it moves in
Pathetic existences moving in circles...
Just circles,
Circles of correction,
Circles of nothing
Circles of Bull Shit...
But a circle is a circle
So why does it matter what type it is?
Circles are death,
The world is death,
Searching is death,
Death is rebirth?
Maybe yes,
But you can be born a million times and never make a difference,
Never try…