I'm collecting dead wildflowers in a jar.
I've been watching their color fade,
wondering just how dull they
may grow at the end of each day.
I leave them in my windowsill
and let the sun drain them of sustenance.
It's quite interesting how easily
an item of livelihood
can lead to such tribulation.

in my dream last night
my favorite poet
Sam Pink
wrote a list of reasons
why I ****
and why
he hates me

reading it
was probably the coolest thing
that's happened to me
and it wasn't even real

I've been saying
my depression has been
getting better
but has it?

does it matter?

does anything matter?
(nope)

why do I care
about my emotional health
when everything
that occurs to me
has no value nor importance

the only impact
I will ever have
will be
to other people
other
mortal sacks of flesh
whose lives
are equally as meaningless
as my own

all of my words
and thoughts
and lack of emotion
exist for less than a nanosecond
in the entirety
of the universe

I'll just continue
distracting myself
from humanities
inevitable fragility

each human life
each of our
manifestations of consciousness
are as irrelevant
as a grain of sand-
tiny
bland
and irritating

together we form
a beach
the kind that nobody wants
to spend a day at
scattered with trash
and a pungent smell

bury your head in the sand
and ignore reality

write me a list of reasons
why my existence is pathetic
I will agree and nod along

everything that is in myself
is inside everyone else

death is inevitable
so get used to it