The poetry is embarrassingly bad
Despite having so much new inspiration.
The big feelings feel so small
When trying to express them with words.
I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.
I don't think,
I don't speak,
I don't make a sound
Other than a rustle of the sheets when turning.

I've become a simpleton -
An emotionless vegetable.
Even when the tears come at night
They mean nothing.
My limbic system
Is broken, I think.