Explaining Stagnation

I feel like wasted material F*****g up the pattern.
A stationary tidal wave, Handed to you with love.
A punching bag with no punctuality.
A trained mahican, holding my mothers pose.
No more poems blaming your parents for your broken moods.
Your counted 6 months without employment is because of you.

Where did you go when you died?
You’re okay if they still see you breathing from the outside.
Inside, your perched retinas are talking it out with ghosts
In a house so filled with smoke it’s hard to think through
It billows out n smoke rings bubbling soft from the wound called your mouth.
They flow slowly out and spell secrets about the fire you cant hold in anymore.

You aren’t growing anymore.
Not all living things move,
Not always up or at the pace you tell them to.