I wrote this poem over a year ago and i dont think anyones seen it but its very relevant to how i feel now. Between that period and now i became okay. It gives me hope that i can be okay again. I can give myself hope. Here is the poem:
I cannot help but notice that my inspiration to write leaks from the holes that have been punctured into my heart and mind.
What am I if not the result of a past that has turned my pastimes into coffins that bare my dead pleasures?
What am I if not a visitor that grieves over the graves of my hobbies?
But the dates on my poems mark their expiration and I’m out of stock.
But I open my closet and look at a graveyard of books completed and books unfinished.
But now I get my exercise from walking aimlessly around the city I call my home.
Though I have a goal to revive the dead.
This is my attempt to write, albeit triggered by the memory of my losses;
I have new books, though they’ve either been abandoned or untouched;
And I try to find destinations for my walks, but I still end up going in circles.
I have a decent vocabulary, though I’m still struggling to explain.
I can converse about the phenomena I’ve learned, yet what I know about them is not enough to be useful.
And I can navigate through the city, but I still have no where to go.
What am I if not an unfinished project I myself have abandoned because it’s too much work?
What am I if not a lazy web of organs that fester and rot during the wasted time I devote to my worn out goal?
And what am I if not the set of unfortunate skills I am trying to employ to tell the world that I am nothing?
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