I’m feverishly lonesome,
and my wounded soul
is yearning for its doom

When I leave,
will the orchids in
my room still bloom?

i do not remember my name.
who i was, or from where i came
lost at sea
a sea of other forgetfuls
grey,
numb,
devoid of light
lifelessly ambiguous
yet black and white

listlessly wandering
to nowhere, from nothing

life has not been easier,
i have only felt more numb
and feel nothing but pain
therefore feel nothing

humidity or tears?
the ink streaks of red are streaks of blood
both have become worthless;
its value inflated;
i no longer come up to breathe

i don't care where we go when we die,
as long as its away
somewhere warm, somewhere lovely,
somewhere with the light of day

yet here i lay every night
dreaming of the dream
dreams wild
dreams stupid
dreams that will never come true
those dreams have chained me
and now i am here

prisoner of my own dreams
who is to save me?

my sadness is disfiguring
that **** ain't poetry

.
.
.

One could say that pensively staring out of the window sill is poetic I think it’s wallowing...

I'm not going to get myself into recovery by self-isolating,
Makes me wonder if I even want to recover,
Think it makes me cool being this sick,
It gives me reasons to be such a ****.