I’m not the person that I thought I’d be.
Somehow (I don’t know how) I lost my
way, and almost died of terminal ennui.
I made my meaning once through poetry.
Rejecting black and white, I sought the gray.
Why am I not the person that I longed to be?
The monster called, “Responsibility”
used its deceptive modus operandi
and almost killed me with blunt force ennui.
One day I found myself an employee
with an almost perfect résumé.
I tried to be the person I thought I should be.
Now my world is crumbling into debris
and the life I had is now in disarray,
yet (somehow) I didn’t die from the ennui.
I’m like some absent minded amputee
that forgot I lost a limb. I limp my way,
failing to be the guy I thought I would be,
surprised I did not die from this ennui.
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