𝓅𝑜𝑒𝓉𝓇𝓎

Riches

  I like riches. My room is beautiful and ornate. The ceiling glimmers in the moonlight. My bed is luxurious.  My floors are made of marble, the walls of stone. There are paintings everywhere. I could have all the jewels and praise anyone could ask for.

So why the hell do I feel this way?

Am I ungrateful?

Or is it just a defect in my brain?

My hair is greasy, but I can't get up to take a shower.

My grades are falling but I can't do the work.

My room is growing messy. I can no longer see the marble floors.

Were there ever marble floors?

Or were  they dirty unpolished wood.

My ceiling no longer glistens.

The moon no longer shines.

I no longer have jewels and riches.

I am alone, I am dirty, I am poor, no matter how surrounded I am, how clean I am, or how rich I am.

I am sad. I am tired.

Help.

P.S. I am perfectly fine, please remember  this writing is purely writing.