Of Frustrations

When inspirations are fleeting and dreams defeated.
It frustrates me so to feel like this.

When has it come to this,
in which I numb my mind till exhaustion 
just so I could sleep another day;
and it sickens me so,
when I just stop to think -truly think-  
about what I have been doing.
And it sickens me so.

I can no longer write or paint,
but take pleasures in laying on my back
staring listlessly at the never changing ceiling 
and reroute my thoughts away from the notion that
I am doing nothing at all but waste away.
Hanging on, onto those small, past achievements 
to sate that growing awareness of 
the truth, the reality, the fact that
I am not going anywhere. 

And it frustrates me so,
when I feel no fight despite the urgency
to push myself up and away
from this drowning pit of self-pity
and towards something more than all of this,
perhaps towards a dream or a goal.
But it frustrates me so, 
when I realize there is nothing there
and that neither no longer exists. 

And once again I find myself
where I was before, 
sedating my will with 
endless, small, meaningless distractions
And it sickens me so.

The End

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