I feel like screaming and
I feel like doing nothing,
always teaming with
this imbalance,
not quenching either thirst.
By holding my tongue
and quieting my voice,
and interrupting my attempt
to do nothing by worrying,
worrying, and then that nothing becomes
something, it becomes wasted
energy, anxiety gone rotten,
a fruitless activity, producing
neither rest nor product,
my motivation to freeze
and stiffen and wait and
recede overpowers even the
fear of my own judgement,
who loves to blare loudly
that I'm lazy, that I'm
not enough, this stuff
i do is meaningless,
and I need to prove my
worthiness by being
exceptional in all ways, not
only all ways, but always,
not just sometimes,
and god stop complaining,
about the hurt and the pain,
it's so boring, it's so
standard, it's so privileged,
it's so bland, and
the more I do it the less
value I hold, i'm told
by my own self,
every poem that i write
that pleads for sympathy
and reaches out for connection
is just another title to add
to my collection of pathetic
writings, proving my biting
nails and troubled mind
do not an artist make,
but that it takes much more
talent and brain and effort
and refrain for this to
be any more than words
that fall to the floor to
be stepped on forever more.