I Can'T Complain At All

I can't complain at all Even when television sound Floods through every crevice When the mind is pulled in each direction Over the sound, not to mention the carpet, Comedy dries out in the dull, hopeless present, Still, you feel trapped In the not complaining at allness When the standard for yourself Becomes so high an undefined It seems to evaporate entirely, Tell me, you: what were you suppose to be doing now? In your closer to perfect circumstance? In what parallel life are you grabbing the moments And in your hands Through your veins, the very aura of life Becomes joyous energy? Why this phantom burden? After all, You can't complain at all. And even if you did You'd feel childish, Less than this holy, objective sum. For the slipping fact is You're always more Than the whole moment before. The mind saddens as it grows, As a child's loving gaze Grows soft on favorite shoes Worn And outgrown. Tomorrow's new pair awaits. A new world to be met. To complain is a failure To look ahead.