Round And Round Poem by David Self

What's the point of life itself,
When we walk in circles, round and round?
We wake before we're ready,
Answering alarms that pull us from the ground.
We go to jobs we never chose to love,
Trading hours just to get by,
Earning enough to pay for living,
While wondering if there's something more beyond the sky.
They tell us, 'Smile—you are alive,
You're one of the lucky ones.'
But some days that feels hard to believe,
As another weary morning comes.
I'm old, I'm worn, I'm running empty,
My heart and mind stretched paper-thin.
'I'm fine. I'm happy. Never stressed.'
The mask I wear, the place I've been.
One person is who I truly am,
One person is who I have to be.
A stranger lives between those faces,
Lost somewhere inside of me.
Still I try with every sunrise,
Giving all that I can give,
Yet somehow every day ends the same,
A cycle I continue to live.
They say, 'Be mindful. Stay present.'
I've tried, but some days I can't see how.
It's hard to hold the moment gently
When life keeps pressing on the now.
So I keep walking, round and round,
Along roads I never planned to choose.
Wondering whether we're truly free,
Or only free enough to lose.
And maybe that's the hardest truth:
Not every dream survives the fight.
Sometimes you're only what life allows—
Still searching for a reason in the night.