Wandering around the room like I'm in a cycle, spiraling
Hours passed, it hurts my knees from within.
Creating the millionth dream in my fantasy,
Will I ever stop this pattern or has it become a part of me?

Witnessing all these blurry images in me
Happy crowds and smiling faces, rising from my tragedy.
Is it my brain that is protecting me?
By creating false realities I've never tasted.

Should i be grateful for it or just stop?
My tasks are overflowing from the desk, a pile so high, someone could climb to the top.
My intuition tells me to cut this habit off,
Like a tumor that should be chopped.

Finally discovered it's all just parts
Of me that was left deprived of
The moments which i should have been in.
Have they turned into curses or are they just blessings?

Constantly putting off, it's addicting
Cause as long as I am in my head and dreaming,
I wouldn't need any other thing
Still, I can sense my higher self hoping:

Someday in the future I'd be quitting
Replacing these fake memories with something genuine
I don't know if it will happen but if it ever does
My legs would finally sigh and be greatly thanking.

i walk into the clinic
like it’s a gas station off Route 66,
neon buzzing, hearts tired.
my body full of roadmaps & warning signs —
but no one reads the signs,
no one hears the engine knock.
they call it stress, call it nerves, call it nothing,
but I’ve been breaking down in slow motion since the Eisenhower years.

Today I am exhausted,
dysregulated nerves.

Somehow even simple rest
feels like more than I deserve.

I wake up overstimulated,
somehow already sad.

It's like half of all the other
"wake in painful" days I've had.

Not really a disaster,
the feeling's bound to fade.

I'll wake tomorrow,
and the next,

just another day.

Like the mighty ocean, vast and deep,
Your strength awakens from a restless sleep.
Waves of hope crash upon the shore,
Healing tides will come once more.

Storms may pass, the waters clear,
A new horizon drawing near.
With every swell, your spirit grows,
Guided by the ocean's gentle flows

They say it's nothing
Just a cold
Bt why do I feel
Like the world
Is sitting on my chest.

I try to rest
Bt the night presses too close
And my back aches
Like it's holding a sorrow
It doesn't understand.

It's just cold
Bt it hurts
In ways I can't explain.

there's an anchor weighing me down.
it won't let me change the course,
but it also won't let me drown.
it makes sure that the water stagnates
as rust compromises the fuel tanks.
losing buoyancy at a rising rate,
somehow staying afloat just to spite me.
i should find the leak and ignite it,
i should let someone else decide now,
but i've been patching holes in the hull.
some would call it a waste of time,
i guess i'm not ready to drown yet.

I have no reason why,
The selfish, in vain, take hold
Of a hope that cannot die,
It’s really getting old

But letting go doesn’t seem to be
In the cards, i can’t play it
On the tip of a thought,
An answer, i can’t say it

And the limits imposed
by the lack of understanding
Makes acceptance the course
And of course, I’m not accepting

Struggling in vain, there’s no other way
Can i at least believe they know i remember.
Nothing i could do
but to Watch, and to pray
Until returning our bodies to clay

I try too hard somehow, without ever even trying
Fruitless is the hand offering semblance to the dying
The greatest minds can't find the cure
What offer could i proffer here
That wouldn't requisite a dejected tear...

In vain, or in vanity
Selfishness or insanity?
No control over desire to
Defeat this infirmity

Should be left to the learned
It's hard to trust the tried.
I couldn’t agree more
On nights like tonight.

Spring came and went quickly this year,
a brief headache as the air
pressure shifted and then
the sun came in. And then
the Summer came in.
Too hot and too dry. Too busy.
The hustle and bustle of
sweaty people who wear too
little and talk too much.
This season is no good
This season is no good at all.

It will be a bad day today.
A bad week perhaps.
A bad month. Too hot and
too dry. Demanding.
Taxing. The machines
not working, the people
not stopping. Hate. Hate. Hate.
It is ungodly how much hate
one can feel towards the
changing of the skies,
and all who abide by it.
Hate in the nanoangatrom,
unequal to one one-billionth.

There is no season shorter than Summer,
not here. Spring and Autumn
stagger themselves: a birth
and a death, spread out across
two months or more.
And Winter lingers, clings;
it doesn’t easily let go.
Summer is Summer once
and then it’s done.
Summer is Summer for a day
a week, a month,
and then it’s not.
And yet it stretches.
An eon, an age,
eternal, hot and dry,
unable to sleep; unable
to stay awake,
a sort of purgatory –
long days and short nights.
No end. No end. No end.

And so, wait, a day, a week,
a month, on and
on, over and over,
until around comes Autumn.
The leaves browning,
the blossoms falling.
A decay that spreads,
the beautiful kind:
soft on the eyes,
on the soul. Breathable.
A breathable decay.
October again; slow, calm.
Blossoms falling. Slow. Slow.

And a thought, soft
like the growing clouds and
the promise of snow,
a thought that lingers, that
fades in, that leaves a stain:
    if today is not a good day
    then make it one.
The trees are bare now, there’s
room for more. Room
for you, to hang
and dangle, snap and
crumple, to drift gently down
like falling blossom slowly
into a heap on the ground,
buried in pink or white,
buried in the death of Summer,
in the death of Spring.