Dysphoria

I've never felt like this before. Not in my recent memory. Disenchanted. Sweaty palms. Empty brain. Inarticulate. A lightness. A weight. Exasperation. Where are all the other people like me? If I were happy, someone like me would piss me off.

-What's with her?
-Why does she have to be so indulgent in her own "sorrow"?
-Stop with those rich kid blues.
-No one cares.
-She's got it alright.
-She needs to shut up.
-She's weird.

But I don't have enough energy to feel pissed off with myself right now, which seems strangely unfortunate.

It's not apathy. It's sadness.

I think I've got a poets heart: poets feel deeply. They're self absorbed, self obsessed, self indulgent and in need of an abundance of solitude. They're dark, and yet awed by the beauty of the world. Despite all their solitude, they're thirsty for love. Or to be loved. This is making poets sound wretched and cliche. Coffee shop assholes with berets. It's not like that though. Where are all the people like me?

I grew up speaking poems, and after I learned to write, I grew up writing poems. My mother said when I was 4 I would sit on the beach and speak poems to the moon. My old journals are filled with poems. I have all my journals from the time I was five onwards. I'd write poems talking of loneliness and persistence, of beauty and pain, of love and longing and loss. I can transcribe some here. Or scan them. As if I need to prove my own authentic "poets heart" to my non existent blog audience.

I still write poems, though not as avidly as I should. It seems like my generation doesn't appreciate poems. Or maybe I'm in the wrong crowd.

But wait, I'm not in any crowd. I'm just fucking lonely.

Longing. Sweaty palms. Empty brain. Frowning in the mirror, I look at my face real close and all I see is scars. What do you see when you look at me?