I write on paper,
A lot more,
Since the last six months,
It feels better,
Than staring down a screen,
Where I tie my artistry,
To the last echoing words,

I wish I let them pull me out,
Of all this,
Much sooner.

I slump into an armchair
Feet drooping down
And sprawl onto the carpet
Watch the dust float around
I have no place to go
Nothing to do
No faces to see
Nothing is new
Boredom is as human does
Sun wearily crosses the sky above
I'm stuck with a fly and a ticking clock
Too leaden to move, much less to walk
And even the aforementioned dust
Has more to do than I.

Maybe in another universe
I wouldn't be so sensitive
I wouldn't be so emotionally dependent
I wouldn't take everything to heart
I wouldn't minimize my feelings
And i wouldn't lose myself