Welcome world:
The pen is yet to grow cold, in fact it grows warmer
and with each movement a somber expression
becomes my face. One does grow somber
when thinking about the human race.
We tried to trace it back, but I think even Darwin
would go blank if he tried to grasp what it has become.
I thought, once, that I might be a smart one.
But I find I grow dumb year after a year
turned a deaf ear to education and left it
to the next generation, thinking they need to
catch up. And I believed my bluff.
And now, unlike them, I need a pill to get it up,
need to huff and puff badder than any wolf,
its grown tough, and I feel I’m of the weaker stuff,
not fit enough to tact and plan,
not sure whether to play this hand, I stand in limbo,
amidst shouts of choose, choose, choose!
You’ll never win if you’re afraid to loose.