Is it enough to be held,
by mourning hands, is it
enough, to be engulfed by
a sliver of the sky, I feel unwanted,
but alive, I'm writing, and living and
listening to the people in my head tell

me to raise the bar and I'm lifting this
workload and it's way too hard, for
someone, who gets easily distracted,
and I'm easily distracted, searching in
the corners of locked rooms, yearning
for the things I've thrown away, I suppose,
I can't live like this, for long, I suppose this
is dying, or at least, what it feels like.

I'm a captor, now imprisoned, who have
a stolen, but myself. Stop, I know the
answer.