I feel trapped inside
My own
Existence,
Totally unable to escape it
Unless by doing the unthinkable.

I take a package of
Sticky notes to work
And steal a few precious
Heartbeats to commit my thoughts
To paper,
Forever immortalizing them.
These notes decorate my fridge,
Monuments that will long outlive me,
Reminders of those heartbeats
Where, during the pumping of my blood,
I was actually alive.

I clean up everyone
Else's messes
And thus I make my living,
But can it really be called that?
A living?

Day begins.
Breathe in.
I make the coffee, and attempt
To open my eyes.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Off to work. To the broom
And the dustpan
And the beats of my heart
I will never get back.
Music helps, but it's not immortal.
Even the best of playlists gather dust.
My job is important, they say.
I don't believe them.
Maybe if I could just see what difference it makes,
Who my work impacts,
That there is proof that I am doing something right
Other than an empty pat on the back
And an obligatory paycheck,
Maybe then, it would be worth it.
Maybe it wouldn't **** away my soul
Like it does.
But maybes don't pay the rent,
And they certainly don't replenish my soul.

Only words make me alive.
But it is too late for that.
I was born with a gift
I'll never be able to use,
A sanity I'll never be able to reclaim.
I was born a few centuries too late.
Or maybe I was born with a soul
In a soulless world.
Where has life gone?
How can anyone live like this?
How can they exist
Rather than actually live?

Why am I here?
I can work such magic,
But there's never anyone to see.
So what does that
Leave me with?
A head and a heart full of
Words and a world that has
No place
For them.