Empty thoughts
Time is said to be fluid,
yet I feel stuck within it.
To me time is a burden,
weighing me down as it drags me across our lived reality.
I imagine it something like a concrete block,
attached to my foot scraping the path I tread
along its loose figure.
Art is said to be beautiful,
yet I create a jumble of words that have no beauty at all.
Words strung along as if I know what I am doing.
I don’t.
My poetry finds itself lost,
that of which I am proud is proved to be as insignificant
as a single grain of sand within the mighty dunes of the Sahara.
The works I strenuously write are incomparable to those words
I put no thought into at all.
Perhaps a funny reminder that what I create with passion
are but scribbles compared to that of which I don’t.
It’s rather strange I must say that works written with no thought
seem to occupy the mind more than those I put my soul into.
I think about this more than I should.
It makes me question whether trying is the mistake.
Whether effort only makes the lack more obvious.
The more I think about what I write,
the less it feels like it is worth anything.
Time does not care about this.
It keeps going the same way it always has.
It carries the careless words and the careful ones alike,
and I cannot tell which of them deserve it more.
I keep writing,
Not that I believe it will amount to something,
but that not writing does not change that either.
These words exist only because I thought them,
and even that feels like too much reason.
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P.S. been trying to be more personal and honest with what I write hope it can help someone feel that they are not alone in whatever ramble of thoughts I put out there into the void.