Wish those little scraps of life
Could mean something right now.
Inadequacy, and unwilling apathy
Swallow all else I feel, somehow.
I feel so dirty, unclean, unfinished, unkeen,
In discomfort, disharmony with myself, harming me like nothing else,
I guess it’s better than panic, despair, or my other weathers fared,
(Yet still there remains a fear of a far more frightening feeling,
That of which only the lone heart hath bared)
But if you were to look beyond my ever-so-present apparent lack of care,
Maybe you could see just how hard I’m fighting
Not against you, or the demons that surround us,
But against myself, because I want to be more than this.
I am more than this. But I can’t see it anymore.
Where am I? This can’t be me.
This isn’t what I’m meant to be.
I can’t see.