I’m feeling as if I’m writing no longer for myself,
but for the absent critique of those I admire
I’m convinced I’ll never produce a work
that will gain the recognition I aspire

My passion is derived from what I don’t possess
Short tales of love and dignity
My words fall short of second-best
It seems I’ll never grasp this feat

My creative drive sputters ink,
but dies short of my expectations
That distorted voice of self-pity
reminds me of my own limitations

I fail to progress in this line of art
and doubt all of my capabilities
I fear the day when my spark dies
and writing is no longer a proclivity

I no longer possess the will nor train of thought
to focus on education or socializing
And whatever I manage to write
has already been written by this hand
in different variations but with the same emotional ailment
Lethargy lies under my skin
a blanket for my still blood
I cannot shake it free or shrug it off
I have to make an incision
but I cannot make this decision
because procrastination holds the scalpel
and after it keenly sterilizes the blade
and tends to the many precautions of this surgery,
then inevitably becomes distracted by its other senses’ desires,
my disease will have won

My temple is in ruins
and nothing can prevent this collapse
Soon I'll be stripped of these cursed remains
and all will be left are ancient artifacts
and relics from a better time,
long lost and forgotten

An excavation to find the spark,
buried under years of repressed emotions
locked away in a tomb without an encrypted entry
I seek those brave enough to embark on this quest,
and wade through the litter and rubble
to raid this infamous lair of despair

Punctuality

is my selective forte

Again, forgive me

Sleep; an essential part of life--
a non-essential part of my night
I shall not travel to the land of slumber and
imagery that leave me to ponder and
decipher the undertone of my unconscious desires

Sleep, you will not store my memories tonight
You play as something illusory occuring past midnight
You vanquish the beginning of my day
and I fall victim of the bed to lay
for hours and hours when there is much to do,
much to ignore, and to fail to follow through

Sleep, I won't succumb to your relieving wiles
You interrupt my mind's process of files
and collages of information
Admittedly, you aid in the retention
of the aforementioned,
but I'd rather learn than burn away
precious time improving myself--
documenting my imbalanced mental health
or recreating art I wished I produced

Sleep, though I love the lucid dreams you induce,
sometimes they make me become more of a recluse
because I never want them to end,
so I stay alone to reenact and pretend that
for just a little while longer,
I can feel passion again

I've been desensitized in a chimerical fashion
I cannot endure this now so I'm commencing action
Sleep, I'm taking a break from your comatose spell
and the ephemeral dreams you compel

Sometimes I forget about those who are near
simply out of fear, for I become too engrossed
in feeling so morose and sorry for myself
I've figuratively put my companions on a shelf,
stored on tiny pedastals that remind me of their wealth,
but I can't seem to breathe in this suffocating mess,
nor can I call upon those who I view are the best
when I feel so small and so disconnected
with the rest of my blood I've rejected