if i had the energy,
maybe i'd cry over the fact that
i can't get the words to flow in this paper,
this assignment, this tiny grade
swimming in a lifetime of letters and numbers
all meant to determine my worth.
if i still had the energy, the perfectionist
buried inside of me would kick in and critique
the work; it'd tear apart the letters and mangle them
until they came out sounding somewhat intelligent,
until everyone glosses over the fact that this
paper clearly has no point, no direction
(like my life)
and no energy leaping out to greet the reader,
a.k.a. my professor and literally
not another soul.
if i had the energy, i might care
that this reminds me a little too much of three years ago.
i might try and figure out what the fuck to do
in order to make myself care.
then again, if i cared,
i wouldn't be in this position in the first place.
if i had the energy, i'd stop here
and fling myself off the roof - at least,
i would, if i didn't think dying would hurt
like hell and death wouldn't be terrifying as fuck.
if i had the energy, maybe this paper would already
be finished, and i could be sleeping, instagramming,
living. but the energy and my soul are dried up,
and the words won't come,
and i keep clacking on these tired keys,
a desperate prisoner trapped in dizzying
whirlwind college days.