A hopeful feeling surrounded by hopelessness encompasses me, envelopes me until I can hardly discern the space from red to blue as they melt together. A desperate feeling comes to me in the late of the night and during the early sunrise and most of the time between that. Even if I so wish to, I cannot rid myself of this. A simple placing of words onto a bleached substrate designed for the task at hand brings me no release, though it is advertised to do so.

I change from paper to technology. I write soliloquies, upwards to half of ten pages long. I prefer writing these on a Google Document so that I can delete passages that fill me with too much dread. I use both, trying to get these thoughts out of my brain. I spend upwards of two sets of sixty minutes a night typing or scribbling away my thoughts. 

I feel myself being labeled as behind, unintelligible when I am not present. I do my homework, but my mind is elsewhere. Every other thought is presented as one that distracts me from my schooling. 

Due to recent happenstances, I focus during class. In the classes that cause me the bulk of my issues, I am scared to speak too much in class for fear of making the experiences of those around me unpleasant. I begin to take notes like I used to, but I do not go back and look at them. I am spoken to and when I respond, portions of my stomach grant themselves the liberty of removing themselves, leaving a terrible pit in their wake. 

All through the day I have this pit. I know that this is not a new sensation for me, for this pit returns at least once a calender’s line. Between the hours of eight and four, respectively, I experience this feeling mostly continuously. After or before that time I suppose you can toss a coin to presume my most prominent emotion.

Despite my desire to write, I find that nothing I write is of substance enough for it to bring any meaning to anyone’s life. While knowing that it is hardly for the better, I like to sit on the floor and stare at the wall, or out the window. The grass outside is still a color opposite the color-wheel from purple and it makes me melancholy, the yellow feeling connotates itself to bitter winds and short days.

I wish for summer to come but I know that when it does I will be spending my time like I do my Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays except now it will be all of the time. I will be alone, staring at the wall, music optional. 

Sometimes, when I feel as though looking into the distance is boring, that my thoughts will draw tears, I sit on my bed and watch television. I can tell that people think that I am not as intelligent as them, but I do not have the capacity to make myself comprehend. When I am old, after all, what will this matter? 

I am stressed, I can tell, but nothing in me, hardly a cell can bring themselves to get up and do the work. I do my homework in places that are not my home, most typically at school, so that when I am home I can sit and hate myself, unproductively. The hopelessness never fully goes and is always back before I know it is gone. The hope that I wear like a northern man wears a jacket, only because it is what will keep me alive, is starting to develop holes more difficult to patch than before. 

In the middle, a dark figure curled into the fetal position at my feet; on the outside, an excited individual who doesn’t so care to reveal too much of the interior that is rotting. A hopeful feeling surrounded by hopelessness encompasses me, envelopes me until I can hardly discern the space from red to blue as they melt together. A desperate feeling comes to me in the late of the night and during the early sunrise and most of the time between that. Even if I so wish to, I cannot rid myself of this. A simple placing of words onto a bleached substrate designed for the task at hand brings me no release, though it is advertised to do so.

I change from paper to technology. I write soliloquies, upwards to half of ten pages long. I prefer writing these on a Google Document so that I can delete passages that fill me with too much dread. I use both, trying to get these thoughts out of my brain. I spend upwards of two sets of sixty minutes a night typing or scribbling away my thoughts. 

I feel myself being labeled as behind, unintelligible when I am not present. I do my homework, but my mind is elsewhere. Every other thought is presented as one that distracts me from my schooling. 

Due to recent happenstances, I focus during class. In the classes that cause me the bulk of my issues, I am scared to speak too much in class for fear of making the experiences of those around me unpleasant. I begin to take notes like I used to, but I do not go back and look at them. I am spoken to and when I respond, portions of my stomach grant themselves the liberty of removing themselves, leaving a terrible pit in their wake. 

All through the day I have this pit. I know that this is not a new sensation for me, for this pit returns at least once a calender’s line. Between the hours of eight and four, respectively, I experience this feeling mostly continuously. After or before that time I suppose you can toss a coin to presume my most prominent emotion.

Despite my desire to write, I find that nothing I write is of substance enough for it to bring any meaning to anyone’s life. While knowing that it is hardly for the better, I like to sit on the floor and stare at the wall, or out the window. The grass outside is still a color opposite the color-wheel from purple and it makes me melancholy, the yellow feeling connotates itself to bitter winds and short days.

I wish for summer to come but I know that when it does I will be spending my time like I do my Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays except now it will be all of the time. I will be alone, staring at the wall, music optional. 

Sometimes, when I feel as though looking into the distance is boring, that my thoughts will draw tears, I sit on my bed and watch television. I can tell that people think that I am not as intelligent as them, but I do not have the capacity to make myself comprehend. When I am old, after all, what will this matter? 

I am stressed, I can tell, but nothing in me, hardly a cell can bring themselves to get up and do the work. I do my homework in places that are not my home, most typically at school, so that when I am home I can sit and hate myself, unproductively. The hopelessness never fully goes and is always back before I know it is gone. The hope that I wear like a northern man wears a jacket, only because it is what will keep me alive, is starting to develop holes more difficult to patch than before. 

In the middle, a dark figure curled into the fetal position at my feet; on the outside, an excited individual who doesn’t so care to reveal too much of the interior that is rotting.