Hoping that what is created comes to your satisfaction
Here I type, writing prolifically
With no real intent, well, not really specifically
Except to fill the void of my mind
With words that draw people of your kind
It's a simple poem, not much to be said
Yet it's the tip an ice berg, which I call a head
In romance I move at a glacial pace
In work I bust ass in a foolish race
Playing an ever consuming game
Playing the game of making a name
And what's the point when I get to the end?
Oh that's right, I've forgotten my friends
And missed the point all along
That life is a swift and beautiful song
And like any song, the end isn't the point
Otherwise people would go to joints
To listen to one, audible clash
Or conductors playing oh, so fast
Because that's the end right? That's the point.
That's why we came and sat in this joint.
And that's what I find myself doing so much
Racing ahead, and losing touch
With the people that really color my life
The people that take me away from my strife
Is that what I want and deserve in the end?
An early retirement and losing my friends?
Getting the thing, the success, the wealth, the fame
And then not feeling much different, feeling the same
From the way I have always felt in my life
And continuing on, blind and in strife
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