I’m lying in bed on a Saturday,
life on hold again for another man,
thinking of how fulfilled I’d be if it were ever worth anything.
These men can all be alone,
taking the company of another for fun.
I always ache. I always want more.
When I draw, when I write, when my mind is idle,
a loop begins in my head.
I’m depressed. I’m depressed. I’m so depressed.
I’m too warm in bed and dehydrated.
Clothes need to be washed, floors swept,
but I’m paralyzed in wait.
Waiting for validation,
waiting for a meaningful life,
waiting for things that will never come.
I can only see myself unhappy.
I can only see myself insecure.
I can only see myself alone.