The earth is not a cold, dark place.

I am breaking my back to kill my creativity.

I am retching on who I am

because I am not very impressed.

So young, so young, so young,

and time lies before me like

infinity lies before the universe.

But for some reason, 

that is insignificant.

This moment is all I want,

is all that I feel I have.

So nothing is ever really even close

to becoming good enough.

You will never be good enough,

because I am not good enough.

Look through my eyes and see that the world is breaking before me,

like infinity is breaking before me.

I cannot place my head above my shoulders,

because I have attached it to my kneecaps.

Just so far that my heels are close enough to recall,

but my aorta is breaking to reach my brain soon enough.

My words are like baby coos to the world.

They are only loud enough to grasp onto momentary attention,

so insignificant as the ears I place each syllable upon

breaks down to sympathize that my vocal chords function.

That my vocal chords have nothing on ages before me.

I am breaking my back to kill my creativity these days.

I hate my kneecaps, by the way.