When I was little,

I used to lay outside and reach my hands up the the sky above,

convinced I could touch the great moving clouds

if I could just extend my arm a little further.

Now I reach for caffeine,

For my headphones,

For books.

For my stupid drink mix

because I’m always tired except for when I need to sleep.

For the words so I can just keep on escaping.

These worlds will never be mine, despite how much I wish they were.

I’m moving like a zombie,

Wasting my time I know is precious.

I want to make an impact on this world,

But I sleep all day,

And when I’m finally up,

I can never find the energy to do anything.

It’s morning,

and I zone out,

And suddenly it’s night.

I want to _live_,

But don’t try.

When I was little,

It was much simpler.

Yes,

It was easier then.