Who Are We?
Life is like some unforgotten novel, or heroic tale,
One of which in essence is all too surreal.
No life could bear the wisdom of so much fruit,
So early in time, but it’s a truth I cannot refute.
I look upon the contents of my years and evaluate the pain,
And I am often left wondering one thing.
A question so formidable it cannot be answered,
It is only by faith in something benevolent that I allow myself not to be angered.
Maybe I have myself to blame,
I should ultimately be ashamed.
That I have grown too eager to be so complacent.
Nostalgia is embedded in all my current memories,
But what does looking at the past really achieve.
In all honestly does it reflect,
Some mere morsel of regret.
For every drop of sweetness we procure, is only followed by bitterness,
Which is unavoidable in any circumstance.
Everyone has a personal story,
One which wishes to be shared, but not for gain or glory.
Life is no fairy-tale, like it’s depicted in your youth,
It does not mirror some quaint idealistic Walt Disney spoof.
The arrival of that blissful happy ending,
Is desirable however, always pending.
You can’t deny the need for such a dream,
But alas it is missing, such is my self-esteem.
What are we to do?
Do we question the why, or is it the who?
© 2012 Alana Bembridge