i’m


    began                                        back

    ­
     i                                                            agai­n


where                                              at


    from ­                                  the

       place

when i was
little my
parents
said
i was
growing
like a ****
(and maybe
i still am) but
what if i want
to grow like
something
else?

My emotions are a skeleton
and every bone is breaking.
My heart is a cavern
and the ceiling is collapsing.

If disappointment were the ocean,
I'd have sailed the seven seas.
My eyes are a furnace
and the saltwater is my excuse.

I could create endless metaphors,
turn my anguish into beauty,
craft well-written analogies,
and pretend pain is poetry.

But honestly I'm just empty,
there are no words that convey
this simple absence of fulfillment,
the hole in my chest isn't poetic.

I have huge dreams and fiery passions,
but I'm lying in bed writing poems,
life is dripping through my fingertips
and I'm just watching it hit the cement.

I feel like a failure,
I'm afraid my life is worthless,
I'm incapable of succeeding,
I'm not good enough to win.

These words are midnight's lies
but they're finding me in the daylight.
I have become exhausted,
and I am so tired of being tired.