I criticize myself
under a microscope
devoid of all hope,
as I continue to display
the raging ocean
on a dusty shelf,
left all but forgotten.

******* by the century-old life
which I created, that was never there.
I breathe in the depravity and loss.
And of you—the one that I lost.

I continue to fall under
the trance of repetition;
in addition to the grief
that crowds my vision

I have discarded
the golden arrow,
pointing to the right path,
walking 'round in circles,
how does each breath cost?

I am afraid that
I have grown to love the war,
the fear, the woe, and the anxiety of something
that looks so close but is far.

Now, every stroke of the painting
of the memories that I create,
engraved in the mind of the lonesome author
who does nothing—but over-analyze it.