"Solitude of a poet"

I yearn for a poet

Thus why am I the poet?

Is it too much too ask?

to be loved.

Forever the poet, but never the poem.

Shall I ever be one's inspiration?

Shall I ever be someone's dedication?

Or will it only live unceasingly, in my undying imaginations?

When will it ever be my turn?

Oh god? The universe?

I suppose this is becoming routine for me. How nice.

Whatever. Depressionposting once more, because I don't feel like there's any other way to sufficiently vent my feelings. And I've probably already said this before. I don't know. I'm not keeping track.

It's all just going through the motions, day by day. Nothing that gives me joy lasts more than a few days. I'll have a week, if I'm lucky. Then it's back to nothing. And it's not due to a lack of trying, mind you; I'll force myself to keep trying to enjoy something and have fun doing it because "I liked this before, I liked this just yesterday, I liked this last week, why isn't it working?" So I force myself to do something that, so recently, I wanted to do, but it's gone now.

I go through phases of trying to make music, make art, make a game, make a story, something. Anything. But inevitably, I lose interest, and that "passion project" becomes another unfinished file in a folder on my computer. And if it's ever opened again, it's merely to think about how it could've been. What it could've been like if I had the will to just finish it. I struggle to improve in any creative field because I lose interest so quickly and for so long that it's nigh impossible to improve in any lasting way.

And maybe that's why I struggle to start any more projects. I know how it's going to turn out. It's always the same. It doesn't matter how passionate I feel now. I won't feel it for nearly long enough for it to matter.

Hell, I'll even go through these phases with games. I'll have one or a couple games I play for awhile and then, eventually, I don't care anymore. I can't bring myself to enjoy it anymore. Doing something I like has become forcing myself to do something I used to like. Going through the motions of doing something, but without any of the joy or mental reward.

Will you be the moon to my sun ?

Will you be the Hercules to my meg?

Will you be the Patrick to my Kat?

Will you be the Odysseus to my Penelope?

Will you be the light to my dark?

Will you be the Saint to my Hilda?

Will you be the Jack to my Rose?

Will you be the Neanthe to my Marian ?

Will you be the Orpheus to my Eurydice ?

Will tou be the red to my blue?

I'm so empty these days, and sad, god, I'm so sad that I can feel it in my stomach

I've just resigned that my nights will be sleepless. I can't do anything anymore, because nothing brings me any joy. On top of that, some people are queer, and I'm right fucking sick of having to work my whole ass and taint off just to make a case that we should be equals.