Is this all that I can do?
To sit and wait for it to come,
passive, lifeless, and inert?
Is that all that I can do?
All that I can write of late
is all that I can think up later,
is all that I can conjure up
from thoughts of 'I can't do this.'

I think of tree and wings and things,
of all I'm losing in my life,
procrastination, stupid princes,
grammar, 'I can't spell
definately, rythm, murmer.'
They're cutting down my memories,
she ridicules me when I cry,
and I can't help but wonder if it's all a lie.

I persist in letting them eat up
my life. This month meant more to me
than ever I've let on to those most close to me.
My one link to this other side,
the side I've come to value most,
is my one and greatest secret.
But it's something wholly foreign
to my life, as am I to them.

At least I can express it as I am.
That which I complain of is
that which leads me on and let's me
put pen to paper. Paradoxical,
you say? You who read this,
if you understand. I doubt it.
But if, in fact, this is society worthy,
you're the ones to tell me.

And now I understand.
This is all that I can do, to answer
my own question. Not
because I lack the inspiration
of my fellows. Not
because my life's an empty
shell. But when I sit down
it's 9 in the afternoon.