I’ve been at this dot on the atlas beating my fists,
chasing my tail for too long.
Every predictable day manipulated to stay
the same, this boomerang life is no way to exist.
If there’s change in your pocket but none in your life,
years will dissolve in the blink of an eye.
Running in place under a blanket of safe repetition
is a recipe for discontent, an impossible mission
of neglected potential and early bird specials.
Is that who I am?
No formula exists for satisfaction but open-eyed action,
and a thirst for the fertile unknown.
This town reeks of the future, foreign temples closing in.
Have I left myself already, is it too late to begin?
Uncork another bottle when you’ve had too much to think,
shed your dusty skin completely before your bones begin to sink.
Try to fly a little braver while you build your twisted nest,
the anaconda has no mercy for potential you possess.
