night-in again

Will I ever be as joyful 

as the people dancing at the prom?

I stand, watching,

wringing my fingers

worrying over a different bus into town.

I don't think I'll ever be carefree.

I walk halfway down the road 

so I don't bother the cars 

when crossing the street.

I ruminate over the past 

until it becomes an ever-present crisis.

I tell myself it's an asset— 

that my anxieties make me thoughtful, 

that they make me kind.

But I am at a loss, 

grasping for inspiration 

like a fitted sheet slipping 

out of my palms.

And I wonder-

should I just lay my head 

on the blank canvas,

let the world of carefree people pass by, 

while I write my worries 

in this tiresome, empty bed?