Today just passed like any other day,
Nothing happened in an extraordinary way.
Today is just another day,
That will soon fade away,
Like yesterday.
And sadly, tomorrow will become today.
I don’t know how to control this—
These feelings,
These emotions,
These affections,
In which I’m lost.
Sometimes, I wake up to the sound of shattering dreams—
Not anyone’s but mine.
And I stay up, thinking, What am I doing?
Technically, I’m not doing anything.
That’s the problem—I’m not doing anything.
I’m just lying down like an animal,
Lying like a human who has never experienced sleep.
It’s 3 AM now, and I’m still standing here,
Watching the rain slowly fall,
Listening to your voice echo from the clouds.
And I don’t know how to control this,
I don’t know what’s right anymore,
I don’t know what to live for.
Maybe I should drop this black pen
That you gave me—
The one that helps me write,
Even when I feel all uptight.
Maybe I should switch my hobby,
Maybe I should go smoke outside.
But maybe I shouldn’t.
What if I couldn’t?
Maybe I’m overthinking,
Maybe I should wait for another day,
Maybe I should hope that everything will be okay.
One day, maybe?
So, I eventually dropped the black pen after holding onto it for almost five years, and I hope you don’t relate to this poem.
