It is one of those days,
one in which I am faced with all
A day I will spend overanalyzing
my Self (or lack thereof).
In searching for the spark
I find incomplete sentences
and discarded dreams.
I find my Self as nothing more than
a collection of disorganized hopes and
(the dust of artistic stagnation
- piling up at the foot of my bed).
I, my Self, am brimming with
wasted wishes and
a trashbin of disposable attempts.
My creative frustrations well within me,
seeking an outlet.