Today I have stagnated,
Wallowed around castrated
by my lack of will
to do anything; still
I've got the time and nought
much to do, although I ought
to use every moment in
some worthy way to win
the game of life which
Everyone plays- it's an itch
that needs scratching,
so everybody's snatching
at others' lives from under
their noses, to chunder
their gains in the splurge
of excess which seems an urge
in this life of woes.
We can never close
our lives.
One strives
to live at his best,
but sometimes we need a rest
from the cold-blooded race
of we people who chase
virtue in theory.
But that's a bleary
goal, as Robespierre found,
and it's enough to astound
most people in the world,
who would rather have unfurled
the flag of greed.

You have to concede
there's a need for this creed
in the breed of people who are the seed
of Bleeding in mankind
Signed,
Me.

There's a hollow kind of despondency
as you reminisce of home,
find yourself alone
But it soon fades and you're left
with discontent.

For there's always a harsher journey,
always a greater Odyssey,
always that which you cannot do.

And we all want to be travellers, unravellers
of mysteries, explorers and deplorers
of comfort.

But we can't. And that's not our fault,
that's just because there's only so much
You can bring about in the world.
Because really we're all hurled
around on the oceans of chance
And so; for the most part you're left
with discontent.

Which is why I wrote this.