I feel my bones creak under the magnitude of my inadequacies. 
Its unpleasant to say the least. 

I'm tried, yet no amount of sleep may satisfy me, 
I'm hungry, but food appears to have lost its taste, 
I am both restless and listless at the same time, 
I crave sunlight & adventure, but refuse to leave my bed until well past noon, 
I fret about my future, but take no steps to alleviate this anxiety.

Basically I'm a fuck-up. 
This poem is crap. 
And everything sucks.


Happy Easter I guess.