Everything about existing seems excessive now.
I’m more like an excessive entity
that’s breaking at the seams,
that’s spilling out of its container.
For I am uncontainable.
For I am uncontrollable.
I wander among the chambers of my mind,
wondering what I’d find this time around,
wondering what awaits at the turn of the corner.
Rewriting the chapters,
erasing the books I created,
I struggle with these memories –
memories I no longer wish to have
but ones that keeps popping into my mind.
an emotion I’d prefer not to be given –
an emotion I’d prefer not to possess
yet I have – in an abundance,
in an excessive manner.
What’s the point of all of this anyways?