Time marches on, the second hand spinning -
Each moment gone, feels like I'm not winning...
Half-finished fences are my seen symptoms
Of a disease that plagues all my rhythyms...
I'd like to write poems, play games, and relax;
Yet cash flow crushes me, weight 'pon my back.
When worried where I shall find my next meal,
Retiring becomes a much smaller deal...
...I do not feel like finishing these lines,
Or sticking to meters and rhymes,
Or staying coupled in ideas and thoughts -
The play thru poetry is a hindrance, a block,
That keeps me confined, preventing my mind's unlock.
I still make feeble attempts to play within the lines,
But, it's so hard to keep at it...
Life is full of futile frustration.
I question what help I've tapped into,
Or if I'll ever climb out of this oubliette;
It just feels like I've not arrived yet.
Memories of yesterday's poem,
That talked of failed expectations...
You'd think I'm in some mid-life crisis,
But I doubt I've lived even a tenth of my life.
This just feels like a Goth's whine -
"Drink deep the troubles in my blood!"
Honestly, as long as I'm not thinking
About where I'm at, or how events are linking,
Then I am fairly happy...
I do still play fun games, I do still write,
And I'm slowly, oh so slowly, trying to set life right.
I wish that the seconds didn't tick so,
That life's candle didn't burn our wicks, lo...
...and the clock marches on, with its tickings,
and life proceeds, bringing me, my lickings.
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