Time marches on, the second hand spinning -
Each moment gone, feels like I'm not winning...
Half-finished sentences are my symptoms
Of a disease that plagues all my rhythyms...
I'd like to write poems, play games, and relax!
Yet no cash 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:
Playing thru poems is a hindrance, a block,
That prevents my mind's healthier 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 frustrations;
I question the help I've tapped into.
Memories of yesterday's poems,
Talking of failed expectations...
You'd think that I'm in some mid-life crisis;
I doubt I've lived even a smidgeon of living.
This feels like a Goth's dramatic whine,
"Drink deep the troubles in my blood!"
Honestly, as long as I'm not thinking
About how my life's 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 my 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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