Evenings

I’ve ripped myself off of the cravings I had,
I snuggle myself in quilt of anxiety,
Sipping a cup of coffee,
Which gives off the wisps of self-denial,
While I read ‘It’s Kind of a Funny Story’,
And portray myself as protagonist,
Eventually I end up overthinking things,
When I’m done, I walk up to balcony,
Awaiting the coldest breeze of nostalgia,
That induce the goosebumps of desolation.
Such are my evenings, everyday,
Till I cry myself to sleep.