The world outside is still
Not quiet, but still
Still
A little bit stuck, perhaps
In a thin space
A still space
A stuck space.
And so I am still
Not quiet, but still
Still
And a little bit stuck
A lot stuck
Still.
My head goes to Poe and Plath
And the meaning of life and death
And then I hate myself a bit for being
One of THOSE
Writers who sits around and ponders death.
Then, doubly so, I hate myself
For being
One of THOSE
Writers who sits around and hates themselves.
I can't decide
What life or death mean
Or if it's right, to hate yourself
For being still
Stuck.
