Poetry

The Pride Before, 25 (238.)

Is this oblivion?
Later and later nights that verge
on mo(u)rning, so-called normalcy,
what’s a normal sea supposed
to look like,
I wonder?
This endlessly-dragging void
of night and bright lamps
to fight it,
it becomes comfortable,
and soon
I forget the people,
a boon
for solitude and mad avoidance,
this slow dance that lets me
dodge real improvement
to fall in the mound
of mediocre pastimes and habits,
I’ve repeatedly forgotten
what a real challenge is.
To push oneself
over uncomfortable barriers
and stand in the center
of disquietude –
aye, there’s the rub,
the true seed
of growth.

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