I Can't

Don't mind me as I fall asleep listening to my favorite things.

I'm just living my dreams.

Working.

So hard on other things.

I hear they matter.

That's what I'm told.

So why do I feel so worthless, knowing that I really didn't have time for that essay?  Knowing my teacher was okay with it because she knew how hard I was trying to live my dreams and realizing I needed sleep?

Still working.

So I'll doze to the sounds of the extra credit analysis written on the same poem by the girl a few rows away because she took the time to say it exactly the way I felt it but could not describe after sitting by gray walls by day and listening to elevator music and wearing gloves by evening and night.  And just because I couldn't write like that.

Living my dreams.

An exasperated, exhausted writer who can't write.

I just want to.

Let.

Go.