I can only talk about myself

I can only talk about myself.

I can only tell you who I was

and not what I can become.

My world vision has entropied,

I can hardly see beyond the pale.

Imagination eludes me,

so do riches or comfort

or peace or love.

I can only talk about myself

but there isn’t all that much to say

except that I may have grown

into an adult capable

of adult behaviour

but I crave, being dead

as soon as I could be.

I am not suicidal

I am just not interested

in seeing what life

can bring, be it joy or sorrow

pain or glory, I fail to see

how my life could possibly

be any different from others

that have been carrying on

before me.

I can only talk about myself

and my poetry inevitably leads

to the question of death

for I think about it all the time

these days, when I am not

busy trying to live

a so-called life that’s supposed

to be a joyous ode

or something, I can’t seem to fathom

what’s it got to do with me?

Why am I here, in the midst of all

this drudgery, unable to muster

the will to see the world

outside of me?

I can only talk about myself

and there isn’t much to say right

now.

Olafur Arnalds – Doria

*Photo by Juan Sisinni on Unsplash

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