i.
i wonder why i write anymore
why i agonize over a few lines of ink
on a piece of paper
what am i even trying to say?
i keep contradicting myself:
in one poem i decry my pain,
and plead for anyone to
heed what i hide
in the next

ii.
these words have no rhythm
no measure no
plan
they are
as senseless and chaotic
as
my desire for
rest and my
aversion
from sleep

iii.
do these thoughts even
mean anything?
are these thoughts
even real?
am i
real?

iv.
time is running
but i'm not going to chase it
there's no reason to
when it ends, it ends
and i don't particularly want to extend it

v.
i don't know what i want anymore

vi.
i don't know what i am

vii.
why am i here?

h.f.m.