You expect
every morning
to be different,
and it isn’t.

No one coddles you
in any way
you desire.  There’s no
long-awaited recognition

that you are a gift.  Instead
you move slowly around
your shabby rooms trying 
to be quiet and minimal.

You don’t even bother
to wrap yourself in festival
colors as you used to. Ancient
T-shirt, ratty sweat shorts,

beat shoes or none if you’re staying in.
Usually you are staying in.
Coffee then the desk if it’s a work day,
and since it’s usually not off you go

instead to what feels like
your real job:
looking out dirty windows
at your leveled world

and wondering how far
you’d have to go
to find a better one,
if there is one out there.

To the desk, anyway, 
as soon as you can tear yourself away
from your captivating despair.
Make a record of all this. It might

do someone some good.
It’s done nothing for you, true.
You never became the gift
you longed to be. Maybe this will.