Is life nothing more
than a series of moments
strung together
like a poorly crafted
beaded bracelet,
the flimsy string base
nearly broken
under the weight
of the hand-woven design?
Or is the design not even
of our own creating,
fitted and shoved together
by someone else,
our will and drive
bent
to fall in line,
in pattern
with what we are
supposed to do?
I've been here for a lifetime,
or at least a quarter of one,
but the glue that
keeps me together,
it feels sealed,
stuck together
under the command
of something or someone else,
some entity that is not myself.
Day after day
feet following
in military style march,
left right left,
pumps beating hard
on the pavement
running, propelling me forward.
My robotic heart
pumps lead,
tongue tastes metallic
as it formulates
the expected utterances
for the ambitious woman.
Yes sir, yes ma'am,
achievements regurgitated
at pairs of ears
who listen merely
at how formulated,
premeditated phrases
may prove themselves worthy.
I aim no higher
than Mount Everest,
spitting my list
of captivating factors,
of perfected musings
of this unlivable habitat
I am to call life,
when all I truly yearn to do
is scream out
the loudest yelp,
that, no,
this isn't all that fascinating,
and, yes,
I would rather
pucker my
dried, worn out lips
around a cold glass
and inhale some
clarity and serenity.
Is a life that's driven,
that's focused,
that's ****** hollow,
its meat devoured by ambition,
is that a life that's lived,
or have I given
everything
away?
