They all want in,
Want to know my pain
And to share my joys.
But do they want me?
Do they want my stupid jokes
And sometimes silly questions,
All the unconscious things I do
When I focus on something not them?
Do they actually want me?
The stuff in the middle
Of joyous high and raging low
Is at least a third of my being
And no one seems to be around then.
At least,
no humans are.
The ones I call family,
And the ones I call friends
Even in the deepest of my sorrow,
I somehow consider something more.

now i feel less.
feel wasted
and useless
and pathetic.
it's usual
yet worse
than the norm.
why won't
sleep come?
why must
i lie in this
agony and
think when i
could instead
be blissfully
asleep?