I am.

I am,
Tired, of too much thought,
Corrupted with too much regret,
Filled on too much fear,
and too little wine.

I am,
Bored, of these subtleties,
Constricted by these yellow walls,
Deluded by these picture frames,
That will remain empty.

I am,
Aggrieved, by my mother,
I'm suspicious of my father,
Still smitten by my lover,
and inconsiderate of my friends.

I am,
Disillusioned, with marriage,
Cautionary with love,
In love with cynicism,
and myself.

I am,
Inconsiderate, of the past,
Belligerent with my present,
Addicted to my future,
and everything in between.

I am,
Covetous of my lover,
Desirous of an unempty home,
Anxious of the evenings,
and the daylight's early death.

I am,
Content only with my dreams,
Terrified only by nightmares,
Comforted only by arms,
that belong to one in absentia.

I am,
Irritated by constant longing,
And titillated with random joy,
Awaiting the beginning,
to the end of what I am not.