Can't you sleep,
or have you told yourself
that you don't deserve to?
Are you waiting for something; anything?
Are you alive,
or is that just what we call this?
Maybe there just never is
a time; a place.
More often than not I find myself counting to ten,
making it through, and counting again.
I tried to find something
pure, pristine, and full of virtue.
But nothing of value remained
amidst the wreckage.
Coming home to nothing
again, and again, and again.
It's in what's left behind,
like you're still there.
But how can I possibly love myself
when I've been reduced to
something I don't recognize?
My anxieties amplify.
"Patience!" They scream.
Well I've tried, I've tried, I've tried.
It's been years.
When will this feel right?
If all things come in time
is this, too,
unavoidable;
ineludible?