Mediocre

I plead with the abyss to swallow me up
so I can escape the scratching dissonance
of my desire to put this ache to a rest
and, yet, the terror of the end’s imminence.
I stare into myself with dead eyes and I
feel like stabbing myself for stimulus
because I can't feel and can't place
what I long for with my own wistfulness.
Each motion I make, each face I see,
all that I do is done to combat the listlessness
caused by the waves of mediocrity
and my own pathetic lack of ambitiousness.