I day drink.
I smoke in the afternoons.
I eat my feelings.
I house strays.
I don't water plants.
I overthink.
I cry my eyes out.
I abandon films mid-way.
I write poems using borrowed words.
I lie.
I muffle screams.
I refuse to give in and let go.
I re-write ballads for old lovers.
I go fault-picking with new ones.
I under-estimate; falter.
I doubt; question.
I blame; hold grudges.
I assume; judge; expect.
I celebrate disappointments because I get to exclaim I told you so.
I am unfair; biased.
I offer my time, then vanish.
I play a strong game but some days I am only weak and feeble on the inside.
I frighten.
I remain sleepless on countless nights.
I shun morning rays on Sundays.
I sing of heartbreak like nobody ever has endured that pain but me alone.
I wish on some days that the planet was flat, just so that it'd be easier to walk to its edge and take the final plunge.
I write self-absorbed verses, blocking out all tangible atrocities plaguing the world.
I ridicule; I laugh.
I take in deep breaths, hoping with each last one that I've pulled in enough to be able to exhume that lingering indescribable feeling as I breath out.
I procrastinate; delay.
I remain breathless on cold floors on Thursday evenings after work.
I hijack tables at coffee shops, sit and scribble down my shortcomings, wondering if all self-awareness does is take you nowhere else but closer to your personal hell.
That counts as a shortcoming too, right?