Tell Me Why

Oh, shit.
The cliche of saying I'm cliche.
Emptiness.
Good God, if you can't heal my ailments, make them more poetic.
My expression of my existentialism isn't excellent.
No, no, noooo.
Nope!
But, I'll live, however depressed it may be.
And I'll just go on and on and on.
Till I die.
That's how I plan on living this life of mine.
Isn't it better than a life of crime,
A life of lies,
A life of suits & ties?
Can drugs fix this?
And, if not, why I am prescribed them?
Ooh, were you just enlightened?
Maybe that's why I write shit.
Or not.