If I do this to keep sane, will you wait with me until I am finished?
The ink keeps me company, with little risk of running low,
Despite the speed in which I aim to cover the page.

Really, I should sleep,
More importantly, I should work.
But I am afraid that what I do will come of little more
Than to be done for the rest of my days.
I see you’re superstitious,
And I see it’s making you use your days recklessly,
Trying desperately to persuade yourself that you’re happy and living your dream.

You do this while I bask in the realization that I am so deadly afraid
Of rejection and what I miss out on because of it.
My worries battle it out inside my nerves system, leaving me alone
To deal with you.

You ask me what my dreams are made of
And what I crave. And I tell you that
I don’t quite understand the question.

You tell me that yours are simple
And when you’re done living them out
You’ll come up with more, hoping
The drugs will never wear out. Hoping
They’ll never stop having this effect.

I admit to you that I am terrified
That I don’t have the talent or perseverance to fulfill any hope I have of being whole.
I worry constantly that I aim too high and I worry too much about
How this will play out. I worry that I over analyze,
And that it won’t get me anywhere.

I think too much about how I should live, never giving a thought to how I might die.
I forget to wonder what I want because I am too busy
Noticing who wants me
And who gets sick of me
Too quickly.