There’s a frustration that comes
with being an emotional writer.
A narcissistic obsession
with being a socialist fighter.
A pessimistic explorer
of reclusive desires.
A self-destructive aggression,
as the world travels by us.
The frustration it hurts,
as I’m hunched over my keyboard,
trying to recall feeling something:
An emotional springboard.
But all I have are those thoughts,
I’ve written again and again.
Is this life for me now?
A cycle…with no end?
It’s like I’ve lost all my edge,
and all the challenge is gone.
I know my brain so well now.
Perhaps my therapy’s done.
But yet I feel no relief.
it feels too early to stop.
I’ve written down all my problems,
but now the question’s “now what?”