I am annoyed at my lack of inspiration
for living, for writing.
I wish I could always ever
write gorgeous things
that would require
gorgeous things to happen.
And sometimes they do,
but why do I come home
and feel empty?
why do I wake up
and feel listless?
when I think of my dreams
I can see myself in a year
doing the same pointless things.
doing something that gives me zero meaning.
and I can’t see myself doing that which makes me happy,
because I have never known what that is.
and even if I did,
who even would I share it with?
of the few family members that I have,
none of them are supportive.
lovers will surely go in time,
I cannot truly depend on them.
Even if I managed to get pregnant and have kids,
how could I ever raise them?
I remember rarely and infrequently being happy.
what could I possibly pass on?
lack of faith,
constant spiritual hunger.
I have no strength.
Many things have been handed to me.
I know that I have privilege.
But none of it makes a difference,
when you are stripped of deep interpersonal relationships.
I feel like I’m always taking
Because I don’t trust anyone to love me.
I don’t know how to be family.
I am surrounded by pathetic examples.
I can barely take responsibility.
Rarely am I willing to put forth the effort
to make others happy.
To even let them get to know me.
Believing I have so little to offer to begin with.
I hardly find myself deserving.
I want to be lonely.