As I stand here weak and weary, I ponder clearly what am I doing here.
My knees weak. My ankles creak. Feet throbbing. What does this mean.
These people feel I'm beneath them. These people feel entitled. I'm entitled too. I'm entitled to move on, to grow strong.
Will this come back. Back as a mistake. Move makes start anew. Who knew, do you? I have no clue. My options limited.
If I start fresh will it be fresh? What of its old and stale. What if it's not what's imagined? Now I've moved, back, not forward.
I can't tell the future, but here there is no future. Future makes the past. Past makes the present. Present makes looking towards the future.
Day dream, no dream, it's all a dream.
I wrote this on a day when I was not feeling like what I was doing at the moment was good enough for what I imagined my life. Sometimes you have to vent. Sometimes the venting comes in poetry form. So vent on. Make yourself strong. Sing a song, or just sing along. Till next time.