I was never any good with writing beautiful things,
so I have to resort to painting tragedies.
I was never any good with watercolors. 

My hair is growing long, 
and I wonder if this is the end of the world. 
The tall pine trees growing outside of my house beg to differ. 
They have seen the end of the world many times and 0 out of those times has it actually ended. 
I thank them and go on my way. 

Writing is so hard, sometimes. 
I sit and think and think and yet not a single beautiful thing can pass from my pen.
Perhaps they were taken up by the flowers outside. 

Maybe poetry is what nature needs to grow and 
they've been taking all they need from my body as I lie in the midday sun.
I would have been happy to share. 

I am not sad. I am simply resigned. I've been inside for five weeks,
but it does not feel like a lifetime, in fact, it feels like a terrifyingly short moment. 
I wonder if the rest of my life will pass me by like this, in short moments that I can half remember.

The sun tells me that I do not need to be afraid 
but the moon tells me that I do. 
I sit under both of them and wonder which is telling the truth. 

I have not wanted to go anywhere more than I want
to go to the grocery store, and buy myself some cookies and 
maybe chocolate milk. 

People are kind to each other, 
and I am only learning of it now. 
People are kind, and we stay six feet apart, looking at each other
as though if we try hard enough, we can transmit an apology through our eyes, 
for not being able to come closer.