i’m too tired to write a good poem. but even if i was awake, who knows if it would be good?
i know how i want to feel when i read it. but i don’t know how to make it happen.
this is not poetry. this is writing stuff down.
i don’t know how to interact with the page anymore.

i don’t know how to approach the page anymore.
i don’t know where it is.
when i find it, i don’t know what to do, or where to go from here.
i don’t know how to interact with my own mind. i don’t know where the good words are.
i’m surrounded by cacti and tumbleweed, but i’m not from here. i don’t know what to do with it.
i don’t know how to respect the desert.

i used to keep a diary just for me. maybe i shouldn’t have stopped doing that. i want to get back to that. but i don’t know how.
something just for me. not for self-improvement. not to prove to anyone i can. not to prove that i’m okay, not broken. just for me.
so i can remember.
i want to remember the good things that happen to me. i used to cherish them by writing them in my diary.
i don’t have to forget, but i don’t want to remember. it’s too painful.

i’m not as extroverted as i thought i was. i’m tired. i want social connection. i don’t know where to go. i don’t want to miss out. i’m scared. i’m exactly where i need to be. help.

backlog. i have to get current.
i have too much unexpressed.
i don’t know where to start.
it’s not fair and it’s too overwhelming.
bookshelves double- and triple-stacked, vertically, horizontally,
but there’s too many stories.
i can’t see what’s behind there without a lot of work.
i learned to obfuscate from my parents
and now, i can’t be transparent with myself.