empty room

I am here, but do I exist?

I watch careful pink roses unfurling through a screened window, noting a moment of peaking beauty.

I do not photograph, paint, or sculpt them, make any effort to capture what strikes me so.

because truly, for a few seconds, the have effected me.

I do not even go outside to truly see them.

My words fail me in this instance

because I have failed me.

 

I have allowed a once sharp and inquisitive mind to stagnate

all efforts going into staying here, fed only coffee, marijuana, and cigarette smoke.

To attempt to live on lust, on teenage insecurites, is my foolery

Is it my doom to wonder who I could have been, had I not become consumed?

My heart, my mind, dulled like river stones

smooth, any edges forgotten

 

this is not poetry

not some sort of strange prose

I am more lost than ever

and all I can do is say the same twisted feelings

with different words

over

and over

hoping someday for a change