Poem: Incertitude
A poem I wrote about a feeling that often comes and goes.
A feeling that often comes and goes.
Needing to make me feel so low.
But also the fact that life’s not sure,
About me, and my parade of chores.
Looming are those thoughts that I stole,
From the slab that reeks of no control.
But also the day when I leave it alone,
makes me feel, so much of my own.
Wasting hours and hours,
Which makes me so sour,
And takes so much from me,
I’d give to my tower,
Of endless ideas, exciting interests,
And an ocean of egregious debts.
Asking one last time,
What is this life?
Embroiled by vice.
Shattered by,
The web of lies.
What is this life?
No time to rise,
Like the tides,
Of our own demise.
It’s a never ending strife.
Creation’s cruel when conviction bleeds.
Lurking lines often linger and then cease.
When the thought is too dull to appease,
Then the craft never grows into good deeds.
Bowing down to the Lord of Distractions,
In search of grace, joy, and satisfaction.
When the want is too strong to resist,
Then the desire never turns into mist.
Spending hours and hours,
Which makes me feel armored,
That takes so much from me,
I’d give to my pile,
Of wasted potential, flickering faith,
And moments etched with accidental fate.
Asking one more time,
What is this life?
On the edge with a knife,
Shaken by,
The thunder of an innocent crime.
What is this life?
No time to waste.
Everyone is,
In such a haste.
It’s a never ending race.
