I never feel that I am productive.
Not productive enough.
Change the world somehow, everyday.
Those are my standards and I have never met them.
So I have to sit with myself every night.
Feeling disappointment and self loathing.
"You didn't do anything great today,"
a voice taunts me.
"Why are you even here if you don't contribute."
But what is contribution really?
Can't it be small?
It has to be small because I can't make it big.
I have to learn to appreciate my small self.
If I make someone smile,
if I write a poem,
if I walk the dogs,
why can't those things count?
I have to learn to count them
because they are all I have.
I can't be great but I can be good in small ways
and who knows, maybe they will add up to great someday.

The fisherman casts his lure into the undisturbed water
The soft "plunk" sends ripples to the farthest reaches of the pool
His bait is shiny, it dances to a rhythm that is impossible to follow
It catches my eye, as it never fails to do
I swim towards it as I've done so many times before
I know I should leave it be, I know where this road goes
But I'm already caught
He reels me in
As I'm being pulled away I scold myself for my stupidity
I'm pulled out of the water and for a brief moment I can't breath
It's a feeling that I've become so familiar with that I no longer fear it
The fisherman drops me in his bucket
For hours I'm left to swim around without direction
Until he releases me, he always releases me
I swim back home, I've already forgotten the lure and its magic
Until I hear the "plunk" again
And I'm reminded that I'm not the one in control

but can it be transformed?
can the piles of bones form waves
and crash into beauteous palettes of marble?
can the deepening cracks in the concrete
be filled from the top and forgotten?
i think they would reappear much sooner.

lately it’s been good to think
and once the mind has wandered off
does it have the courage to stay lost?
because i think it’s funny –
the pain of trying to hard to find a place –
consumes the soul much more, it seems,
than thriving in the uncertainty
of being content while still feeling lost.

can the wires be untangled
if the ends are saudered shut?
can we pull apart the fibers
and recreate landscapes we thought
were places we’d like to visit.

i don’t want to believe the places i’ll find
are perfect mirrors at this point in time
and my arrival will shatter the equilibrium

but if that turns out,
i will hold my breath
and put the pieces back in a mosaic
and color the shards with my tears.

Maybe if I defined it
I could achieve it concretely
I just want a little credit
From my own racing mind
And an OK to take a break
With out the guilty looks from inside

i wish
i felt as happy writing my own music
As i do dancing to yours

.Filling my life with emptiness
...I used to be productive
But now productivity
Is like a jar of chutney
sitting in the cupboard
for years.

All I want to do,
is just sit in my room
and observe
observe it
shrouding my room
see the dust floating in the air
Like a cold, moldy coffin
And find a hole to jump  inside
and hide
my mind
colours
colours
colours
col ours
call ours
call hours
c all hours
see all hours
see the things I could not find in a minute
See a purpose in small things takes hours
I don't need a purpose.