my life
has been colored,
painted, drawn. erased,
torn and thrown away,
lost and then found.
I like it that way.

I no longer write poems
I write lists
I write thoughts
I write myself with symbols
that we are conditioned
to recognize
as something meaningful; beautiful

nothing I make
is pretty, nice, beautiful anymore
I just make a picture
and hope there's something of me in it
then I wait until someone says it means something
I stopped making decisions; from now on, only conclusions

I found a leaf
I drew on it
for an hour I was inspired to make something beautiful
I made it for you
I was afraid and I kept it
first I pinned it to my desk
then it fell, because it was fall
I lost it. When I found it in my laundry pile,
it was broken, and torn.
I can't help but thinking;
maybe that's why I'm confused.
I can't tell, maybe I'm hurt
maybe I'm a leaf.

inspiration:
a collection of thoughts/papers/dreams.
with missing letters/words

I stay up for hours
filling in the blanks

I need __.  

circle one: (you/help/coffee/a cigarette/sleep)

this is why I shouldn't be here:
I'm not ready for this
I'm like a cup of tea
my ideas are steeping
they aren't ready to be drunk
by the unrelenting eyes of others

when I find myself doing what
I was sure 4 months ago
is what I love (creating manipulating and destroying)
I can only think about being somewhere else
thinking about something else entirely

I thought I'd love this place
and I do
or maybe I love the idea of being here
I love the idea that this is what I could be doing
this isn't what I'm doing
I can't be here
1) because I'm not
2) because I'm scared of what would happen if I were

I sincerely believe that I should wake up now