I am dopamine hunting,
avoiding the emptiness of sitting in front
of a blank sheet of drawing paper.
That white sheen reflects anxiety.
Will the sketch be any good?
Will any of them ever be?
Who am I fooling?
I never felt this as a kid
while holding a pencil.
Category: Poetry
While I ruminate on yesterday
and worry about tomorrow,
my dog chases off a crow
and wags his tail with satisfaction.
I look at my face in the mirror as I shave,
hearing past comments from friends
about my eyes, my mouth,
how one side burn is wider than the other.
This is my personality waking,
claiming to be who I am.
A conglomeration of memories
and faded emotions that are no more
than a tattered, stained sheet
covering the void behind it.
We need friends
to reinforce the stories
we tell ourselves
so we can feel
a semblance of substance
to fill our NPC shells.








