My whole life has been a collection of half-forgotten endeavors.
A half-dozen stand upright and proud on my bookshelf
Many more in the little box on my desk filled with the beginnings of stories I never wrote
Schoolwork I never finished

Outside the window, he walks by, firm-breasted girl on his arm
Because I only loved half and not all of him.
Behind him, a gaggle of girls living amongst themselves,
Laughing and crying into each others arms,
Myself not a part of them because I was too timid, unopened, unliving

I lie on the floor of my room because I am too lazy to sleep in a bed.
Staring at the ceiling shrouded in darkness,
I wonder how much longer this half will sustain me.

Boredom is easy to relieve so as long as it is done with a book.
There is a book of anonymous poems on my shelf that I never opened.
She is a
wilting flower because she shuns the light of the sun.
Sun-baked earth because she rejected the rains
Unburied because she refused to rest in piece

And yet she laments her suffering,
refusing to acknowledge her own short-comings.
She cannot weep, love, cry, exist, be, anything at all,
She can do nothing because she doesn't want to live though she has everything.

Providence works in clever ways.