In the Making


Make me busy.

Engorge the lazy, shiftless minutes of my waking hours with thoughtless labor.

Make me work, make me eat, make me work again, until the sun goes down.

The darkness smothers every nibbling thought knocking to be admitted, and my endless questions.

Make me hurry.

Otherwise I’ll pause to reconsider my: situation, purpose, job, home, favorites, methods, everything.

Make me never have to wonder whether I’m missing something.

I’m always content when running keeps me blurry; Who gets restless when they’re dying to rest?

Make me turn my eyes from the fleeting days I’ve left, ignore their passing.

Until they’re gone… Or maybe…

Make me wonder.


Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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