When the great unfulfillment hits you, you can only stare back at it and wonder what could be so wonderful to beat this thing and what could be enough to feel something greater than the emptiness sitting in your gut. You reach for what it might be and you scratch and claw your way to something, anything that has the capability of filling space. You scream at the sky and at the clouds if they will listen. You scream in your chest and your lungs fill with kinetic anger and it echoes in the space and pushes the emptiness further. You don’t want to work or create because that will make you face the truth about the quality of what you do and the truth about how good you are. You’ve spent your whole life feeling unique, only to find at every point on the path, that you are not and that the thing you feel is only coming to you from someone else who already felt it and expressed it before and better. You can regurgitate it and sometimes it comes out pleasant enough, and every other time it comes out smelling and stinking. And even in the pleasant moments, it still comes down to it being born from something else… every ******* time. So you stop looking and you stop working and you stop creating and you stop making anything and all bottled up potential remains stagnant and unfulfilled which leaves you the same. And thus the emptiness lives on and grows and thrives at the expense of your sanity, and thoughts of being something other than what everybody else is. Because in truth you hate them. You hate the ones that are like others and when they move and when they act you can’t help but feel contempt for the whole lot of them. And the contempt grows even stronger once you realize you are mixed in there right next to them. But you never really had a chance. And the ones that did only had it because they had louder and more obnoxious voices. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy and I am that dull boy.
I know it isn't a poem in form, but it felt like one in tone so thanks for bearing with me!