My god, I'm done.
Accumulating dust,
in the cellar, i wait
For the day I'm renewed.

The talents once thought of myself to possess,
Have they reached a limit? Did they ever exist?

This mind ventures wearily in hope of progress,
But not of excess,
No need for excess.

Outcast by my own hand,
But never touching down,
Now, looking around,
regretting what I've found.

Not weary, yet resting.
What I'd give just to die,
Not to cease, but to know
"Am i really alive?"


Please god, let them find me
and plug me in again.
My being feels wasted.