This recycled tome
Weighing heavy on my chest
Like a overloaded barbell as I try to impress.
I’ve one hand reaching up to heaven
One hand gripped tightly onto hell
My heart, the fulcrum to balance the scales.
The familiarity of my failings cause my soul nausea.
Same ole story, same old results
Insanity raises its glass as I profess “I thought this time would be different.”
The deception of “I can do it all by myself”
Is more convincing than a snooze button.
Nine more minutes rarely fulfills our rest.
I can get lost in the labyrinth of my mind.
Or, create a different narrative, a different story
To live in the unfolding, and worry less about the ending.