I want to write about life,
about sunflowers and oceans of grass.
Mountains towering over the skyscrapers,
nature towering over man.
The elixir of love and the joy of the sun.
I want to write about opening doors,
light at the end of the tunnel,
life outside,
outside this,
but I can't help but want to write about the pain,
the discord in the notes of my life,
the beer bottles across the room,
lined up in a row,
a long row.
It's 3am and I'm eating a bag of cheese puffs,
and I hate myself.
I look down at myself,
the lumpy shell that is my body.
Looks like jello stuffed in a plastic bag that's about to burst.
I know it can get better,
I know it can.
Unfolded clothes blanketing the floors,
pockets of trash and missed opportunities,
where am I?
How did I get here?
What went wrong?