I Detest Asking That Question...

[myownhate]

Ever just want to be alone, serving the silent waves of soft remorse as they wash over you. Passing over the shades of grey illuminating the vast surfaces of your room. Sit alone and think in rhyme, the prose conflicting in itself. With delicate hand a heart is broken, the grey can now enter more vividly into the mind.

Why has/will this happen?
Has happiness dwindled, or has it been faked from the start?
Unsettling times will pass, won't they?