We're Rooted In Routine Poem by Mark Heathcote

We're rooted in routine
Like a candle burning out of flame
Wearing clothes we once wore with love
Now worn out, decrepit
Like soulless junkies wondering if
They'll one day ever truly rediscover
A meaningful beat in their pendulum hearts again.

It doesn't matter if you cleaned up your act
The withdrawal you feel
Will always linger in your wake or sleep
Routine rituals without 'meaning or emotions.'
They are lived again and again
Till you no longer ask why, why
Did I get up at 7 am and get home at 8 pm

Why, why does all my food taste stale?
Why don't I care if I live or die?
Why do I suffocate where there's no soot or smoke
Why do I feel like I'm already buried in the ground?
Tediums such as these may grow heartless flowers
But mine won't grow. It now wants to wilt away.
Blow out the candle; I can't do this again.

Oh, we're rooted in routine.
Routine rituals without 'meaning or emotions.'
Routine rituals without 'meaning or emotions.'
They won't carry me far, not even if I close my eyes.
And imagine I am the spark, the fire, the living flame in you.
I want to be doused naked in the rain once again
And be born again. And be born again.