This is not a poem. This is simply a stream of consciousness with line breaks.
I do not pretend it’s a poem.
I am simply trying not to think.
To think, means giving voice to the thoughts clamoring to beat me to a pulp
The typical, “You’re not good enough,”
s h i t”
Such a cliche in every way, and yet what can I say?
It’s the daily the soundtrack to my brain
Alongside, “I want to die.”
So instead I try not to think.
I keep busy.
Busy, though rarely productive.
I try not to think about that too.
I make jokes about wanting to be in a coma so I can finally take a break
People laugh awkwardly, making a face like they’re not sure if they should
But what else is there to do but joke, and try to laugh, and not think about wanting to die
Not think about how tired I am.
Of living like this specifically, with nary a clue how to change it.
Blocked every time I try.
By the universe, by people, by weird bureaucracies, by my own guilt for wanting something different
Something more than this.
There has to be more than this.
I’m trying not to think about it.