This was a poem I wrote when I was working 18 hour days and I was at the peak of mental and physical exhaustion. I am surprised still that I managed to think up this piece.
Effort: perspective and opinion,
I feel an anxiety, a quickening, the hasten in my breath.
Longing for non-commitment, committing to longevity,
aspiring for freedom, the price is slavery.
Responsibility. Repugnant. Necessary.
I've placed myself upon a pedestal. I feel THAT necessity.
I understand my place thus far, but no, I don't agree.
This mortal coil, choking away my rapacity.
Ironic that, in and of itself, is what I need to accomplish such selfishness.
I'm horrified by doubt and am disillusioned by reality.
Follow through, do, act, commit. Decide.
Wasting time thinking is wasted time.
But I am tired. I am exhausted. I am sore and I hunger.
Instant gratification in an IM world doesn't exist.
Expression isn't a waste. Not expressing yourself just might be...
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