Can’t claim disappointment, as given
my depressive depths and anxious disposition,
I never once entertained the notion
that I’d get this far. Even so,
still stuck here, sinking and collapsing.
Static as ever, even if on higher ground,
and maybe I’m just a whiny little bitch
because I’m still thirsty for answers,
hungry for something more,
and I don’t know where to go
or how to get there, who to trust
and who might lead me astray,
so I’m left here with my spinning compass,
wandering in the dark,
jumping in fear at every little thing.
Must my well-worn, circular path
be the only mark I ever make?
Born on a small plot of land,
living only to dig my own grave?