Cold pasta
On a Sunday afternoon
Shifting feet
Unsettled hands
Potential energy
Relieved

I stare at the ceiling
drained
by all the things I didn't do
Tasks and obligations are notecards
wedged between collections of thoughts
slowly taking up space on my shelf
until nails give and wood splinters
Favors are rough, leathery bookmarks
dominating Bible-thin planner pages
straining and bending
until schedules fan out
in a fat, perfect circle
of endless anxiety

Take up a pen
Decide now to check the contents of the kitchen cabinets
Struggle to remember what food you like
Pick something you tried once four months ago
Go to the store
Forget the list, only remember the one thing
Impulsively buy a weeks worth of that one thing
Realize after making it and eating it why you only tried it once
You now have six more days of food you don't like
But you forget to eat one of those days
Realize you don't care about saving money as much as you care about pizza
Buy a lot of pizza
Get acne from eating pizza for two weeks
Cry about it
(Also, food you didn't like sits in the freezer for months before you finally let go of the guilt associated with throwing not expired food away because your parents guilt-tripped you for not eating stuff you didn't like as a kid)

it takes me all day
to finish a bowl of soup
it is cold and sits on my desk
i chip away at it until its gone

it feels like I'm holding
a pile of Lego bricks
and sorting them by color
instead of connecting their parts

my eyes wander to
only what interests me
and I tend to move by
either branching or spiraling

my feet are running on hot pavement  
im exhausted
and by the time i look around
im in the same place

If you don't admit, you never did.

You can think and shout, to solidify yourself and enforce who you are and what to do. Or else you invite the liquidity of your progress.

I have an attention problem. And a reluctance to deal with things that hurt me.

I have an internet addition, an avoidance of confrontations, a lack of will to follow through. Am I air? Evade the senses that bother you. Coast and coast.

I write to hold myself in one spot. To put my focus and attention into the repeating letters I know in patterns that form the words I know. My function is to imitate and apply here to the best of my abilities. Machines can perfectly imitate and apply but it is the eyes of a person to perceive and feel.

I am the owner of the actions. I could possibly not own this paper or this pen, but I have paid my attention and actions into this. The fingers, wrist, eyes, tendons. I am the puppet master of this stringed body I inhabit. Without me, this body is a shell. Your life, moments and sense of self are precious.

I am cold, lonely and bored. My confidence in self hasn't been awarded so I don't try. Where are my rewards? Where are my victories? What do I want? Can I stop retreating to my slumber and solitude? Quietly and slowly existing.

I beg for freedom. To venture out. To see and touch the dark side of the sun. May that convey.