I can't tell the difference between
my life spiralling out of control and
falling into place.
So I spend my days making up
for the past one,
Trying to hold onto myself whilst
having no idea who I am
and reading poetry at 4am
trying to imitate it's words and
calling it art.

But I am hungry, thirsting
for more,
mediocracy does not
satisfy me yet
I was not made for great things.
So I fade away, run, become
intangible
so you cannot reach me because
I was not meant
for your world.

We sit in dark rooms
staring at blank walls
with a soft but empty
embrace encasing
our frames, sifting through
the open window
that our legs had
dangled from just
minutes before, like
they do every night
because we’re four floors
up and just want to
sleep.