All I feel is remorse and a longing
for my wasted and undeveloped,
malnourished potential
for the arts.
How I long to write,
spilling my thoughts and words
onto beckoning sheets of blank paper.
How I wish I could draw and outline,
bringing to life scenes, memories,
and figments of my imagination
in which I always envision and depict myself
as a more vivid
and entrancing individual.
I feel completely isolated and pathetic,
unable to connect the dots,
trampled on by the success
and the never ending bits of small and large
investments of effort
that my peers have the potential to conjure up,
while I writhe and struggle with just forcing myself to
face the responsibilities and challenges,
only to find myself crawling into bed every night
having accomplished nothing.
I feel starved of life and companionship,
as I look around and see others
who I might’ve longed to be friends with,
brush past me without a glimpse
or a moment of hesitation,
as if I were a humanless shadow in their path
that formed out of nowhere.
The more time that passes by,
the more I feel myself slipping away.
Unable to think, unable to speak coherently
in the sense of complete honesty,
I can only dream of a world
in which my journey aligns with the stars of my dreams.