I keep losing my pencils.
And its freaking me out a little inside.
Because it’s the only thing I have left of me.
the only desire I have left.
I wish to be an extravagant poet.
To be able to constantly write like nobody is watching.
When many many people probably are.
And I can’t have this desire.
this want,
without my pencils,
utensils,
and to have these credentials that say who I’m supposed to be.
because how am I supposed to be the person I’m supposed to be without the one thing I have left of me?
the item that makes me, me.
can’t be lost.
because i’m lost without it.
