I twist my hair in my fingers
Literal hours go by as I contemplate
That’s what we’re all doing, right?
Contemplating what has meaning,
And what is complete bullshit?
I sit and ponder my presence,
Online and offline,
And how I construct my own identity.
My dead ends disperse according to my anxiety
Suddenly it means very little how others perceive me.
Because why wouldn’t I be open
When everything is so superficial anyway?
Return to issues
And then I continue to pull out my hair.