Goals Poem by Timothy Long

This hunger is fattening, every day a different bodies of emotion, I'll starve by the end of this plague: life, it's like a never land of hell, to be fair as everyone left, I'm done in alone, my brain has getting foggy and empty some years now, never realizing how pointless everything is now, it seems everyone is more qualified, just seems like this field is another failure, what now? An empty goal fruitless to carry, knowing no rewards left, only dream is to now publish, so close to finish, after that death can come, so many defeats, life has been a mistake, what is one win? A lie to tell yourself something different, so dumb and already lost, my goals are dead, weeping, at the grave, a fake rivet, affray in the own house, it can't be this, it can't be that, a description of life and emotion, the storms of this fiction, watch it perform, admits of a private hell flooring, swelling, interfaced longing for the floor, borrow for morrow, what in way to say it last forever more.