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.
*Photo by Juan Sisinni on Unsplash