The art of existing

No one cares what I’m doing with my life. They say, the dead are so easily forgotten. Do what you love, while you can. But no one will ever understand. The thoughts that come like tsunamis, ready to be my next worst metaphor. The bad poetry. Sucking down cold coffee, the rude people who I thank sarcastically when they don’t hold the door open for me. I’m a pigeon, the rats of the city. I suck good resources from the earth. Why am I here? I close a door and none of the windows open. I’m left inside, suffocating, when really you’ve already stopped reading.