Nov 2022
my bedroom is dimly lit
and i sit barely awake, slumped
against my desk, the glow of
a monitor drawing my attention
and i realize i don't want to write
i want to sleep, dream, breathe easy
but tomorrow frightens me,
wavers against my field of vision
and makes it hard to stand up
a reply from a friend
snaps me out of my daze
the not-so-subtle ding
of a not-so-funny message
ambience plays gently
and i continue to ramble
far past my bedtime
deep into nothingness
pouring out like an
unstoppable waterfall
til i am empty once more.
it just feels so pointless
i don't know what i gain
from doing these movements
from memorizing the keys
from knowing it all
with my eyes closed
maybe i should have gone outside today
felt the sun sink into my skin
felt a breeze rather than this stagnant air
felt a chill outside of room temperature
maybe i should have gotten up today
maybe i should have drunk more water
eaten better. slept more. lived bigger.
i am plagued by what-ifs, hauntings
of things that could have been. dreams
of a different past, visions of a different future.
and yet i remain the same, unchanging, unmoving.
i could have died yesterday,
i could still die today,
i could die tomorrow.
and yet... does it matter?
time stands still for me.
the hourglass is frozen,
sand stuck in midair.
i almost want to reach out
grasp it in my hand
crack the glass,
let it loose.
i squeeze my eyes shut.
the monitor's glow is burned
deep into my eyelids;
i can still see it when i look away.
and i sit barely awake, slumped
against my desk, the glow of
a monitor drawing my attention
and i realize i don't want to write
i want to sleep, dream, breathe easy
but tomorrow frightens me,
wavers against my field of vision
and makes it hard to stand up
a reply from a friend
snaps me out of my daze
the not-so-subtle ding
of a not-so-funny message
ambience plays gently
and i continue to ramble
far past my bedtime
deep into nothingness
pouring out like an
unstoppable waterfall
til i am empty once more.
it just feels so pointless
i don't know what i gain
from doing these movements
from memorizing the keys
from knowing it all
with my eyes closed
maybe i should have gone outside today
felt the sun sink into my skin
felt a breeze rather than this stagnant air
felt a chill outside of room temperature
maybe i should have gotten up today
maybe i should have drunk more water
eaten better. slept more. lived bigger.
i am plagued by what-ifs, hauntings
of things that could have been. dreams
of a different past, visions of a different future.
and yet i remain the same, unchanging, unmoving.
i could have died yesterday,
i could still die today,
i could die tomorrow.
and yet... does it matter?
time stands still for me.
the hourglass is frozen,
sand stuck in midair.
i almost want to reach out
grasp it in my hand
crack the glass,
let it loose.
i squeeze my eyes shut.
the monitor's glow is burned
deep into my eyelids;
i can still see it when i look away.
my "poetry" (if you are so inclined to call it that) happens over the span of weeks. i write something in the haze of depression, think "oh god, that's pretty bad" and move on. then a few weeks, or months, or even a year later, i come back to it, think... "hey... this is kinda relatable!" and work from there.
but it's relatable in a bad way. in a way i wish it wasn't. i would someday like to come back to a poetry piece of mine and not remember that feeling i poured so deeply into my writing. to see the mad ramblings of a hollowed out loser and think "man, what the **** was i thinking when i wrote this?"
for now, all i can do is continue to stitch together these half hearted attempts at putting words to emotions, at creating transitions that sound pleasant in nature and endings that are a satisfying close. god, it's so hard. i don't even know if i'm talking about poetry anymore.
okay, that's all. another proverbial blog post done. wow! who knew it was this easy?
goodnight, folks!
but it's relatable in a bad way. in a way i wish it wasn't. i would someday like to come back to a poetry piece of mine and not remember that feeling i poured so deeply into my writing. to see the mad ramblings of a hollowed out loser and think "man, what the **** was i thinking when i wrote this?"
for now, all i can do is continue to stitch together these half hearted attempts at putting words to emotions, at creating transitions that sound pleasant in nature and endings that are a satisfying close. god, it's so hard. i don't even know if i'm talking about poetry anymore.
okay, that's all. another proverbial blog post done. wow! who knew it was this easy?
goodnight, folks!
