Wed, 01/04/2017 - 12:45 -- hazelm

In the beginning, it wasn’t living, it was

Slugging through schooling, imagining that 

I was capable of anything, yet it struck me,

That foreboding, that intimation of a constant effort,

A violent, unrelenting, staggering desire

For nothing but success, for fulfillment;

A blinding blow, an understanding

Of a meaningless endeavor, an education

So that I might have a career so that I

Might support myself, so that I might die;

Despite my unrest, my dissatisfaction

So divinely all-consuming of my head

I took this restlessness and creased it,

Word-origami, into neat little poems and works

Lapsing back into restive writing

Ill-at-ease in my contracting skin, 

My twitching nerves, transmitting a message,

Yes—urgent. This must continue. This.

For the rest of my life, so that I might have a career

So that I might support myself, so that I might die;

This is what I must do, and by the end, 

Despite my fidgety typing,

I have closure.

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