s.or is it poetry?

even to write, i pour myself into a screen. i live through these pixels, but i’m getting frustrated. i want to walk away from this, from you all, but this fatigue has settled into my bones and i’m losing what it takes to move. oh, how simple it is; how simple i am, and you, and yet a desire that i cannot shake will grip on to me no matter how i come to terms with our peas of brains. understanding is cynical; you live for it and die before it has ever appeared in the world outside of books and poor films; why pursue it? it lives its very life by sapping yours away from you, mine away from me …

so, read the aimless paragraph and attempt to establish a semblance of what you know of it. of what you’ve understood.