doing the life-thing

It’s nearing two a.m.
and I’m listening to Pink Floyd,
The Great Gig In The Sky.
I didn’t even have alcohol tonight.
I’m just tired.

Tired to the point where I can’t hold my pen properly,
nor keep my eyes open,
and God forbid I look at my bed.
It’s a strange atmosphere in the room.

I’m all alone,
yet I have to think about all the silhouettes,
faces and heads I’ve seen
in my room,
that I know very well aren’t real.
Never were.

I’m all alone,
but company given long ago,
still hangs in the air like dust and pollen.

I’m all alone here,
and I wasn’t a few hours ago.
Tonight I was sitting at a table I didn’t know,
with my friends around me.

Looking at them made me want to read poetry,
listen to music,
look at paintings,
and worship.

Worship life,
really live;
by writing poems and making music,
painting and worshipping this beautiful time.
I want to do it all
and do it well.

Not become Picasso and have my work sold for millions and millions of dollars,
but I want to make people feel
and make them understand
what I feel.

It’s exactly two a.m. now
and somehow it doesn’t seem real.
It doesn’t feel like that’s me,
or like it’s a unique experience.
I mean,
how many pretentious 15-year-olds
have had a crisis in the middle of the night?
All of them.

As I’m writing this,
I have Pink Floyd on repeat.
And it reminds me
that I don’t know how to convey emotion.

For I can’t sing,
dance, paint, or speak eloquently,
write.

I can’t make others feel,
for all my feelings aren’t real,
and I don’t know what emotions are
for I forget about them quicker
than I forget about the illiterate sentence
which I was about to form next.
I worship life
but I can’t.

Can’t translate it.