Something is wrong with me.
It's too much work to be happy.
I can't remember the last time I
gave a stock answer when held
hostage by small talk.
I stare at my small stack of empty
notebooks and imagine its
pages filled with fictional worlds.
Words woven with a golden heart.
At the touch of a nearby pen,
chances for these journeys to be read are lost.
No negotiations.
Small snippets crawl out.
Forceful recreations and pale imitations--
erased every time.
I cycle through this toxic relationship
hoping for change and disregarding existing creations.
The logic of my dreams falls under question
when it seems my words will be
locked away and left to gather dust.
Growing old with this knowledge
makes continuing the cycle barely worth it.
I'm already tired of it.
YOU ARE READING
Caffeine and Me
PoetryA collection of poetry ranging from brain farts to exploring why I bother getting up in the morning. Most likely there is some form of caffeine to keep me awake (or alert) enough to type my thoughts out regarding my depression, struggles within my d...
