Poems How I Feel

Haha.

Loser, loser, loser—

has a ring to it.

My ideas have a bling to it.

Mindfulness is what I need,

loneliness is what I breathe.

This rut needs to leave— to be honest.

I don’t know.

This is what I feel.

Distant from everything—

even myself sometimes.

I say to that voice in my brain,

You need to write more,

instead of just thinking about writing more.

A video a week seems kinda hard,

but you can do it—

especially when you’re unemployed.

I don’t speak enough,

but I think too much.

Broke, in crippling debt,

but I believe—this too shall pass.

I hope this reflects me.

Vulnerability was never there before.

I don’t know how to explain myself.

Improvement is what I crave.

I watch, hoping to learn something unique from the past.

Does it help? I hope.

Not sure about much—

even this existence sometimes.

An imposter in a loser’s body.

But I’m pretty fit,

so that’s a plus.

I feel great.

Wasn’t always like that.

Couldn’t leave bed sometimes.

Depression of the mind.

I’m not like that anymore.

Thank God all the time.

Believe me, I want to be strong.

That’s why I shoot—

but I’m no Ronaldo,

so sometimes I lose.

But I believe— this too shall pass,

like Andries, on the grass.

Poem 2: A Economy of Thoughts

The purpose of change.

The economy of life.

Creativity allows one to achieve,

to estimate what it takes to not be a bum.

I see that most won’t see the value in being an artist—

stuck in a first draft, blinded by notions of bright flashes. T

hat’s all they can see.

I don’t know if the flashes matter,

or if I even want them.

Recognition might be necessary to inspire,

but with it comes hate and envy.

This has yet to happen—will it ever?

The mind shouldn’t dwell on that.

Only the task matters.

Struggling to be a struggling artist,

my mind is confused, imbalanced.

Meditation and discipline are what I need,

but I’m not disciplined enough to be disciplined.

Silly thoughts convolute my mind.

Life is short—shorter if you waste it.

The brutality of everything gives me fear and anxiety.

My words hold no purpose.

I make this because it’s hard to find meaning in it.

If you don’t understand it—or even if you do—

I hope you feel something,

as my emotions run through.

Pretentious, I don’t strive to be.

This is just me—lonely and about.

My eyes have a mouth.