My mind feels like a drought --
a conscious lack of thought about the harvest,
it's been ignored,
untouched,
unquestioned,
and "unburdened".

But it still remains a nostalgic sight to those who pass by and see its brown grass,
its veiny leaves,
its weeds in the concrete --
I walk quietly along with music in my headphones, wondering if it's loud enough to drown the guilt of my self-induced disparity and my disinterest in the sustenance I need to be more than just a warm seat in the room,
but rather a warm blanket to the homeless.

All I know is that the next page is blank,
and that a blank page is still opportunity.