late nights lately, inordinate overtime,
12,14 hour days, six-to-six, six to eight.
in turn, much neglecting going on—
neglecting my creativity, my self, my means to my end,
following a path that sends me nowhere,
because i cannot recount where i've been.
paycheck numbers are not what i want to remember by,
reminiscing ain't ever a mater of money;
for the honey of memory is all too human.
thus, i'm presuming neglecting ain't what i want to do—
neglecting friends who call or write, not out of spite,
but just out of sight, maybe, out of range, perhaps,
quizas, i should rearrange my sscchedule,
then again, maybe not.
i like my work-work, i really cannot complain,
it's only that when the vain part of me stretches
and hits the roof, i begin to feel aloof and abscond
this work that saturates, absorbs and takes on much
of my limited time and thinking space; hence,
admittedly, i fear—having to look back to face
the emptiness.
for most of what i do, for most of the day, is
ultimately, meaningless to me.
personally, The Words, such as these,
are what please me most,
and which, in the end, will boast (if only to me)
that i have certainly lived a life worth living,
as i return to giving up the pursuit
of that which is most provincially assigned,
and so that i might pursue all that i am inclined
to do, all that woos, and swoons me,
all the frivolity that is quite quintessential to my being—
my words, the wisdom, passion.
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l.m