I sit to write this poem and what do I see?
The paper holds a spot of blood
Better inspiration there couldn't possibly be
More accurate metaphor for who I've become

I remember how the planet buzzed when I felt alive
Wrote fun about simpler subjects
Now notebook is the only safe space to confide
Slew of hidden horrors
Stories
Regrets

I remember each
"what if"
I let slip away
I'm feeling low
Their ghosts drop by
Taunting with foggy images of wasted yesterdays
Thrown away to get high

My back pressed against a wall
Words I hate to admit are true
Guess I was wrong after all
Said people don't change but they do