Stumble Through Life

scream

i am not original.

i am but a letter in a word, in a page, in a book,

of what I'm still not sure

i can't write(and so i've been told)

and i don't even know why i try anymore

i can't help but feel like a waste

because i know they expect something of me

but their eyes dim when i look at them

like thousands of birthday candles

blown 

out,

too early.

why does living feel like this?

or perhaps they're right(write)

and that this is not death

but some half-alive purgatory

breathing

i don't make sense

my words are a jumbled mess

and they live so explicitly on my screen that

i can't

help but feel jealous

something's changed

i hate it.