my writing is so bad, nothing is beautiful

I have been seriously questioning my life lately.
It seems like I should not live in Brooklyn.

I cannot take a vacation.
If I were to travel, the government would
Eventually send me envelopes.

I dreamed the last three or four nights.
I am on my back. I sleep like that.
My head is propped up a little.

Before I sleep real life seems more like a dream.
Then I sleep and I dream.

As I am waking I repeatedly ‘silence’ my cell phone alarm.
Something seems bad when I first stand.

I am picturing my head bending up and down in the shower.
My head is encased in soap bubbles.

I am not successful. It’d be different if I was successful.
Some people make casseroles.