lackluster

i find myself in this place again, unmoving and dull.

it's not so much that i'm comfortable--on the contrary,

i feel as if i'm a stranger in my own skin. things seems to

move forward and on with vigor, and i'm here like a ghost,

a flower on the wall, living inside myself, trying to make

sense of these clipped and scrambled thoughts in my head.

every day's a new breath,

yet i'm asphyxiated.

i feel too much and

i feel nothing.

i'm not

dead

but

am

i

l

i

v

i

n

g

at all?