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I want to write a novel,
bestseller, New York Times,
or paint a thousand pretty pictures,
or pen poetic rhymes.
I want to be something
full of artistry and whimsy,
instead of trudging through the mud
in a body more than flimsy.
It’s all up to me,
move on and buckle up,
but have you seen the state of it?
The world is rather fucked.
When nuclear winter strikes,
or the sun sets us ablaze,
none of it will matter,
a morbid, tranquil haze.
Stop complaining, start doing,
indulge in all you have,
because tomorrow isn’t promised,
and today isn’t that bad.
Thank you for reading.
You can read my other poems here.
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