We're stuck in the mud, of our cerebral swamp,
Where our dreams go to die, like socks in the wash's perpetual ramp.

From the depths of our souls, a sarcastic sigh,
Echoes through the void, "Why did we trust Tinder's algorithmic lie?
Did we really think swiping right would bring us true love's delight?
Now we're stuck with matches who only like our filter's highlight!"

Like a drowning swimmer, we cling to the shore,
But our hopes and fears are just Netflix's next episode in store.
"Will we find love? Will we find fame?
Or just another season of The Office, rerun in flames?"

Tributaries of thought converge in a mess,
We're swept away by procrastination's clever dress.
"I'll start tomorrow," we say with a grin,
But tomorrow's just a myth, like the Loch Ness Monster within.

We search for solace in the fridge's crisper drawer,
A snack to cling to, in this endless, crazy scorer.
"Maybe if I eat this whole pizza by myself,
I'll find the meaning of life, or at least a decent shelf!"

Like a shipwrecked sailor, we scan the horizon's frame,
For a glimpse of hope or just a decent wifi signal's worthy name.
"Is that a bar? Is that a beam?
No, it's just our phone's pathetic attempt at a decent dream!"

We're trapped in the quagmire of our inner strife,
Our dreams and doubts locked in a witty, lifelong fight.
"We'll adult tomorrow," we say with a smile,
But tomorrow's just a joke, like a participation trophy's worthwhile.

At the delta of desperation, we find our shore,
Where the ocean of our souls merges with the coffee we adore.
And as we flow into the vast unknown,
We cry out in unison, "Where's the snack zone, and a decent therapist's phone?"

With every twist and every turn,
Our absurdity grows, our laughter forever burns.
Like a whoopee cushion, our hope springs high,
We're the river of dreams, forever goofy, never dry.