Too tired,
And ill
To be festive
Even as I long
To be joyous
And triumphant.
I should sleep,
Eat well,
But I don't
Have the energy.

I miss being desired,
That little touch
That let me be special
Just for a moment.

I miss being wanted
And longed for,
Some one somebody
Missed, even just
From time to time.

I have little courage
To desire my own company.
Could you possibly
Show me how?

I'm sick,
But I'm home.
The house is just for me
As everyone's at work
Except coughing little me.
It feels like a reversal,
With my little sister
Away at school
But not me.

Write,
write,
Fit in the poems you must
Before the time runs out.
Each year,
You need to write more,
Keep trying to think up
new ways to say old things
even if you fail,
and miserably.
Hopefully I can strech
the poetic muscles
And become better each year,
writing more with each turn
around the sun.

Driving home,
ill and tired,
leaving pieces of my heart
and broken memories.
I am battered
by a semester that proved
too much for me.
Icarus fell,
but must live
with the shame.

Notice,
I noticed!
what's in the lit magazine.
Notice,
I notice!
The names of every scene.

How similar they are,
As you flip through the page.
How similar they are,
'as if they were friends' you say.

It's as if they know each other,
Their nuances and strengths.
It's as if they know one another-

and it's cute how the 'editors' list matches the 'table of contents.'

I can't do this.
I am a failure.
What sort of
Student am I
That I so easily
Procrastinate
And waste time
Needed to write
Papers, to study?
I am a mess, a
Failure that is
sure.