bodies of work: part two

i dread the weekends because

i am used to the preoccupation of weekdays to do the service of delaying the impending waves of sadness and dread that hide behind friday night, it’s the calm and quiet and freedom of saturday where these thoughts freeload in my head but don’t pay any rent to take up space and make a mess that i am forced to clean up after and it takes so much energy to even acknowledge that they exist like when thoughts knock on the door and ring the doorbell simultaneously and suddenly my ears ring blaringly until everything is silent and i am numb and frozen from any feeling because the weekends are overwhelmingly calm and my mind can not seem to slow down with the pace of sundays

i am nothing more than

an ant, a star among the constellations that set aflame the sky; nothing more than a speck of

dust that can vanish at any moment; if you were

to look down and try to look down and try to

distinguish my eyes from the other ants you'd

realize we're all cut from the same cloth trying to make meaning out from the monotony of life

"existential crisis and fatigue, introspection"

lethargy

i am what weighs me down myself down on most days unable to think straight or remove myself from forced conversations i am too drained too tired to even think about thinking to my dismay even the thought of getting from point a to point b is a drag my mind and legs seem to be in a harmonious sync to bring me down they have formed an alliance against myself amidst my mental lag

quarantine blues

i've been confined in two dimensions

the four walls of my room

the music box of my mind

both of which set the stage

everyday they put on a musical play

telling the tragedy of my downfall

my thoughts scribe the script

humming the lullabies of childhood

singing the tunes of angst

i've committed the script and songs to memory

the audience sits, ready to witness another day

darling, it's showtime

that feeling in the pit of my stomach?

everything is just meant to end

how can i possibly stomach the idea that out there are others leading their lives into oblivion such as that it often feels like every ounce of myself i squeeze into existence is fake and surreal and futile amounting to nothing