At Methodist for the heart X-ray

my mind is a torn and stunted page  
out of the book of destruction.  
I cannot tell left from right  
down these narrow white halls --  
mostly do to some crippling anxiety.  
 
and the woman down at the desk  
asks me what am I doing with my life.  
yes what am I doing with my life?  
yesterday my hair turned white.  
yesterday the acv did not work.  
yesterday I washed the dog.  
yesterday I laughed in sober moments  
and flicked a roach off of a glass window.  
 
but I thought about  
how different all things could've been  
if I'd broken glass  
and died in the sun a little more,  
just as all the other kids had.  
 
but now the years are going  
and what am I doing with my life?  
I wished I'd said i am a writer
or i write,  
but barely.  
and even the short stories  
and the screenplays take me through hell.  
I never finish anything  
but these poems keep coming  
and maybe that's one big reason  
why I keep writing them.