Being
A poem about an internal monologue we all have.
Early morning — sun still sleeps.
Sitting quietly, hot mug warms my hands.
Searching for serenity.
Futile attempt to simply exist.
Harmony impossible to find.
Yet I persist.
Stillness contrary to man’s deplorable quest.
Endlessly pushing the wheel of pain.
Self-imposed burden from birth until death.
Programmed by a hand unseen to struggle and strive.
Reaching, grasping in this pathetic search.
Never satisfied.
Unanswerable questions begin pouring in, filling my mind with clutter.
Thoughts racing now, uncontrollable.
Sickness overtakes, I begin to mutter.
Frenzied, though a faint whisper implores none of this matters.
Conflicted by unending obligations.
Fleeting triumphs only perpetuate the incessant chatter.
Even the scurrying of the squirrels seems a pointless plight.
Up one side and down the other.
Frantically purposeful, yet no end in sight.
If I sit long enough some words eventually appear on the page.
Self-righteous drivel.
March on good soldier, you’ve a war to wage.
Impure motive drives their creation.
Desperately hoping someone will commiserate.
Pretend friends sharing in my frustration.
Dawn breaks now, signaling a new day’s bustle.
Reflection has led me tantalizingly close to truth.
Only to see it slip away in this inevitable hustle.
A day that began with promise like every other.
Head bowed in silent submission.
To these expectations borne of an unknown mother.
Stealing a glance into the bottom of this empty cup, what do I see?
Resigned obedience.
Tired face of an old man stares back at me.
