My Worst Trait

As if this pen could fix a thing
This pad, it is nothing but the means to an end
As every opportunity wasted serves to attest
that I, when at my lonliest have nothing
nothing to say--and nothing said, I settle
in my pillowed bed
awaiting a morning no more bright
And though the sun may rise
it sinks as well.
Litturae sends my soul to hell
I look up from below to see
the faces I once knew surpassing me
in life. They flew a little higher,
avoiding situations dire as mine.
Encapsulated by this tomb I scratch these rocks
but it's too late. Indifference.
It's my worst trait.