I envy prolific souls, and their bodies of work,
into which they channel their energy.
What do I have? Nothing to show.
Nothing to show but endless days of sitting,
sitting here overwhelmed with feeling.
My body convulsing in undulations,
tears of longing burn through the carpet as they burn me,
rising up through my throat.
Even these are but a passing movement in time.
And tears evaporate, without a trace.
Only the empty wrappers of snack bars devoured,
piles of worn heavy clothes on the floor remain,
the accumulated relics of my consumption.
This, the only measurable dimension of this experience in time,
the only concrete proof that i exist.
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