My hands grasp onto unsure objects
Fighting the past and barely handling the future
And I feel sick.
I feel sick each day
Each morning
Each evening
Each conversation
Each cigarette.
I cannot digest this,
Nor can I digest the food on my plate,
Or the information thrown at me each day.
I am lethargic and boring,
Lame and confused,
Tired and constant,
There is no change.
I fear routine but
Also fear change
I am fickle.
I am boring I am selfless
I am selfish I am sure
I am distant
I am clingy
Like the shore.
I pull you in when I need you
Push you away when I don't
Cry when I am uncomfortable
And turn dark and I am cold.
I grasp onto unsure things,
Hoping I will gain control.
Control is not in my control;
However,
I will try and grasp onto these feelings,
Write about it and wither in self pity
Only to realize
I can only control the words
Escaping my chapped lips.