My life is a book
My life is a book.
My life is a sad, boring book.
A book that the author decided to give up on.
My author couldn't think of new material, so instead my plot has no progression.
My life is a mundane schedule—always repeating, never changing.
Everyday is the same routine.
Everyday is the same struggles.
Everyday is the same tiredness.
The days seem never ending; as if my monotonous lifestyle has turned 365 days into one long day.
My nights are no longer sleeping, they are merely naps, if even that.
Sleeping is the end to my chapter.
Waking up the next morning is the beginning of a new one. Now
my book no longer has chapters.
It is one long chapter, broken up into paragraphs.
Every time I nap, a new paragraph begins.
God, I long for a new chapter.
I long for the day that each paragraph isn't just a copy and pasted version of:
School,
Work,
Shower,
Homework,
Help mom,
Nap.
Enter, tab in, control c, control v.
School, work, shower, homework, help mom, nap.
Sometimes,
just sometimes,
I remember how easy it would be
to just end my book. After all,
what's the point of a book, if there is no plot progression?
YOU ARE READING
diary of a shitty (aspiring) poet
Poetrymy poetry may not be good, but it's real and people do say "it's the thought that counts" so, when it comes down to it isn't realness good enough?
