This could all be useless.

the mistakes we make,

the longing break of friendships,

for what it's worth, this could all be pointless.

the tragedy of the morning.

five a.m.

every

single

day.

Paranoid, over thinking, staying up.

dissociating, drowning, draining.

seven hours, and four hundred twenty minutes,

spent.

was this worth it?

the familiar ring of the bell

                                                        echoing profusely through the endless halls.

we stay amongst ourselves scattering,

becoming strangers to the ones we know well.

curled up in a chair as a flower wilting in the hot sun,

the dim light of the building reflects an unlikeable look upon your face.

now counting,

two

hours

left.

For what it’s worth,

we made it.

The atmosphere around us continues to spin uncontrollably,

exhausted until a new day begins, (still drowning).

we try,

and try,

and try.

Pondering the night brought about by the glistening bulb of the moon,

we fight the sleep that dawns on us,

when

will

it

just

end.