If I hide in the closet in the far back corner,
I don't know if I would be escaping anything but the light.
I want to hide though.
I don't want people watching me.
The sense of failure is impeding fast.
I am so tired of looking sick and feeling sicker.
I used to believe that I would make a difference.
I would rise above my illnesses and write a great American novel.
But now?
Now I feel as though the world has stopped spinning for me.
As if to say, "Jump off! We don't need you anymore...."
I feel like a failure.
I wanted more -
before the sickness set in.
Before the invasion.
I want to write beautiful things.
I want to write about beautiful people doing beautiful things.
But - I don't....
I write about how I'm dying.
I write about having an addiction.
I write about how no one wants to be around me.
No wonder....
No wonder no one wants to be around me.
I have a world of dreams in my head,
But no one wants to be around the dying man.
I used to have such breathtaking dreams.
But no one will ever know.