"I'd tell you all you want and more
If the sounds I made could be what you hear"
The stench of the morning turns my stomach
The pace of the afternoon drags on
In the back of my head
The night sky leaves too much to be desired
And I've been wondering, what's left for me
What can I expect them to find in me
That they haven't found elsewhere already
I'm a used up rendition of what I think I'm supposed to be
These words aren't even interesting
"Oh, has the world changed, or have I changed?"
Is there supposed to be a way to cope with being me?
Anxiety Answering