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Poem

My world is pure emotion.
I spend my days crying to the people about things that are out of their control,
My nights crying to the universe as if it would listen and take any pity upon me,
And my dreams crying to the unknown, my own subconscious. 

I look in the mirror and see nothing but a girl,
Someone familiar though,
Almost like a childhood friend who moved away too soon and changed the way that they dress.

I try to reminisce--
But my memories feel more like books I have read,
And I am just another character that the author forgot to flesh out;
Unessential to the plot, forgettable in a sense.

I try to draw--
But what once was a beautiful face
Is now just another set of lifeless figures and forms that I wasted too much time on trying to make "perfect".
And yet the only thing I can see when I look at it are my mistakes--what I would change,
And how someone else would do a much better job at bringing my own concepts to life.

I try to write--
But my words have always felt more like vomit than poetry.
And even if I could, 
Who would care to read it anyway?
It's not like anything I write about holds significance to anyone but myself.
And when I have tried to write to be understood it just feels forced,
Like a baby, trying to fit a cylinder in a square hole over and over again--it was never bound to work in the first place.

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