Back From the Crept
Health issues crippled me in the past ten months,
near comatose with bitter content I spent my days in a fog.
struggling to find the dreams that once seemed sensible,
while fools distracted precious time with their suicidal charms,
Now, alone, I vulnerably start over, a virgin in the arts,
unsure if the damage had already outlived my creativity ,
having the talent to express what I wish to accomplish,
failure’s possibility is high but only fools fear its pleasure.
Can I get out of the love affair with failure and befriend success,
or will I succumb to the sadistic game of a dying clock,
whose time seems to stall, a delusion of the reality,
of actually speeding with no brakes without realizing,
leading to a deadly collusion with other fools coned as well?
Still, regardless of the clock’s smirk and failure’s gleam,
I will reach for success even with a noose around my neck,
and continue writing regardless how little talent I possess.
(this slightly depressive poem is the result of the mixture of a melancholic movie with jetlag and injuries. Once you realize that time will run out, you tend to get more motivated to successfully accomplish your goals, even if there is no possibility of success, because once death collects you, you can never come back to finish what you never started or stopped working on)