Clinging to vibrant envy, energy like a glowing knife,


Grasping at straws for sensations to make me feel more alive.


Longing for anger or sorrow or intensity,


Yearning for a splinter, a gap in monotony..


Familiarity breeds contempt, but content is not familiarity,


And some days I feel level. It is such a disparity.


Wallowing, wading and wondering what's real


Does anyone else understand how this feels?