Sometimes I question if what I'm doing is right.

I sit here in the sun all mixed up inside.

All I need is a voice from outside, but all I ever do is shut off and ignore all the signs.

 

Sometimes I feel like I'm bigger than the world.

This ego is inflated with the thoughts to destroy.

I'm brought back to the earth so quickly and so violently, I then again begin to question my self worth, defiently.

 

It's a never ending cycle which I'll find ways to cope and fill the void.

Alone time is all I need with my thoughts, a pen and paper, but it's something I always avoid.

 

Sometimes I think I'm the smallest human alive, with nothing to give no matter how hard I try.

I think poetry is bullshit when I hear the word cellardoor.

Who am I to think I'm better than Waldo, Hamlet, Joy, or read forever more.

 

Sometimes I see things clearly, but now it's such a rare occurance.

I think back to the days when I could truly be.

All I need is that voice to give me assurance.

 

That day I hope will come, when the cycles and ego and pitty are silenced.

Back to the days when habit and understanding and joy were the tools to my only mindset.