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Poem

My reality is a reflection of the past.
A frivolous life lived so fast.
With no hesitation, doubt I always cast.
I get indolent even on a high priority task.


I look to the east and there’s no sun. 
Yet it’s supposed to be a morning but it seems as dusk.
I have a lot of questions, but I don’t know who to ask.
The secret life of Walter Mitty, it’s no fun.


I would rather be the bum, than to be a fallen hero .
I am good with numbers but all my equation’s sum up to zero.
The state of mediocrity vellicates my nerves.
Yet I choose to live in the present whilst building the future on my past.


My heart seeks solace in very dark places.
My soul is void and empty pursuits it chases.
The moment I forgot to roar, woke up a decade later to realize I was drifting.
In the deep sea, I now realize that my oar is at the docking yard.


My reference to the future is delusional.
The past forgave me, but the present entangles me in a chasm filled with lava.
The inferno is irrepressible, no one can extinguish it.


If there’s sense in this poem then my mental faculties require restructuring.
An empty verse is supposed to be meaningless.
An empty verse is supposed to be a set of theatrically arranged words bearing meaning.
Only to the author.

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