Each day is as disastrous as the next.
I spend my time looking up at ceilings,
looking up at the moving clouds.
I fiddle around my brain trying
to find an end to this crisis.
My life is war between
what to do and what not to do.
The do's become mundane,
the do's are just piling up like
a garbage heap of useless trinkets.
I have no where to put them put
in the landfill of my head.
It's full of uninspired babble
looking for an excuse to do nothing.
I'm a dancer without shoes attempting
to go through the motions while I repeatedly
stumble and fall as I forget why I get up.
This dancer is only searching for that
perfect performance that will keep me
inspired to wake up and feel purpose.
I can't help to feel purposeless because
without shoes I can't walk without pain.
The pain becomes blisters of an empty
existence that only persists because
I feel that one day there will be an end
to all of this crisis driven suffering.
Is it my middle age or is it all real?
I see cars driving and going to jobs
propelled to prevail in their search
for security and comfort.
I'm an old couch who's lost
all his ability to make one fall asleep.
I'm unrest and I am torture.
Lie awake, look up and find some new
imperfection in the ceiling and make
it a metaphor for how you're feeling.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem