Waste Of Time

This is such a waste of time.
I know there’s a point to it all,
somewhere,
Buried,
But it’s eluding me now.
It’s days like that get me going.
Get me hating everything.
Just leave me alone.
I don’t want to be happy.
Just leave me alone.
There’s no way I’ll ever get it right, is there?
I try,
And after a while I start getting somewhere,
But it all just falls over at the worst moment.
And here I am again.
Spilling my soul to strangers,
Selling myself to my poetry.
And it all starts again.

I wrote this on Tuesday, referring to a mood I was on on the previous Friday. Thus, I can remember hardly any of the actual description. So, figure it out. Poems are better that way anyway.