I wouldn’t call myself a whiner.

But to carry on through simple days that inflict quiet disappointments,

 it is suffocating.

This isn’t tragic.

Not a scene you can paint,

Not a feeling you can sing.

It’s in the daily doubt.

In conversations you don’t know how to end,

And when they do end,

You’re not sure how to begin again.

It’s nothing remarkable,

Not even worth telling as a story.

Yet it fills space in the mind,

A space left empty,

Hungry to be stirred by any thrill.

It’s the usual morning,

When everything you expect to happen.

Happens.

When the exit door is never lock,

But you don’t walk through.

You just stare at it,

Like a dream too far away.

Wishing for something,

Anything,

To come and carry you somewhere,

Somewhere full of feelings.