Struggle, A Daily March Poem by Chris Taylor

March, march, I travel your parched wasteland
One step, one stumble and the drudgery continues day after day
Blisters, Boils and broken toes
The tattered shoes I bought let loose one more stitch mile after mile

Water, my internal make up, where is your quench
The wastefulness of my youth as I cleanse my mouth and spit
The world chokes it’s neighbors for your life-preserving drops
Now its essence ebbs from my pores

My soul’s direction is lost; like pushing through the blizzard in a headwind
Each day’s purchase is toward a map that won’t lead me home
Struggle, failure, clawing and clenching teeth
Brow furrows but concentration is erased on Alzheimer’s cruel chalkboard

I drag the social chain;
Making sure others hear the clink each link makes
Some-days I skip; most days I plod forward a little
No one can help me; no one left a candle in the window

Who the hell am I; a slave to my regimen
Or am I victim of my own regime
Did the monster I created become self-aware
Did I not hide my flaws well enough

I paint my Carnivale mask with the color of everyman
Being careful to appeal to everyone; and no one is offended
My soapbox can no longer support my weight
And I fall down on top of my own principles skinning the knee of my hipocrisy

Just one more step towards the oasis of “Reborn”
Please God, not another mirage; not another visage of my own creation
Make my weary steps firm and bandage my feet
Give unto me a new map; a new direction