I promise you all I'm fine and no,I'm not trying to beg for comments or reads or whatever.
As I lay here staring at the ceiling.
In a puddle of my own self doubt and regret.
I think "hey,at least I'm sad enough to write another poem for people to relate to."
And yet I can't see to find the satisfaction.
Maybe a reaction will help-some more votes,comments,or follows.
Or maybe a little bit more human contact in which I can hide my sorrows.
I stare in a mirror,and see a hollow version of myself.
My eyes are real,my face can lie,but everything else feels like it's going to melt.
At least I can use these feelings as a form of inspiration.
But what's the point of inspiration if it just leads to self infatuation?
I'd rather being doing anything other than laying here on my kitchen floor.
If you don't like feeling this way,then there's the door.
So just read my poem and over analyze the words.
And hear again,the things it affirms.
