Forest for the Firs

Stuck again

in the feeling that I might have nothing.

Nothing worthy or worth any earthly whim.

These things I call mine.

They feel alien to me,

not worth the time they take to use.

I want to burn my belongings

and refuse to let them control my future

because they are beginning to feel like

burdens I didn’t choose.

I know I have been limited

by what I've allowed.

Living in a state of maladaptive daydreaming,

my head in a cloud.

Disassociated from the consequences

and the impact real things

would have on my real life

because nothing has really ever felt real.

And then, in those very same moments

societal assimilation

makes sane movements sound

insane.

Is the circle of my impact on the earth

really so big

that it ought to induce

immediate anxiety in the estimation

of all my small actions.

I’m struggling to afford the roof over my head.

Let alone the mental clarity to make decisions

that will resolve the root cause of

cloud inspired stormy premonitions

and shelter me from any real storms ahead.

There I go again,

distilling storms from dissociative stirs.

Frozen like winter,

trying peer through snow covered forest firs.

Let seasons pass

and like springs sailing scent

may new growth convince me,

that really,

I have nothing to lose.