Look OK, I can't write.
No matter the things I try to put out
Whether they turn out as something worthwhile
Or as the usual trash that I tend to spit out,
I'm saying that I don't really believe that anything I write is necessarily
Good.
I don't even really believe in anything I say or do
And frankly I'm just so confused about every single sh tting thing about myself.
Because when it comes to me sitting awake in bed at 2 AM
The lights of my phone bouncing off my eyes
I often find myself just staring off into my room
Confined by these walls of darkness,
Mindless
Tired
Alone.
Yet somehow my stupid brain is able to reveal to me some memory
Or just some random, maybe relevant thing
That triggers me to burst out into some sort of an outrage,
A rush of thoughts that blasts off the top of anything that I might've tried to keep
Contained.
And I don't know what to do but to pick up the shards big enough still to see
And try to make sense of where they may have come from
Or what they used to be ...
