Worthwhile
I wasn’t born to be down but that’s the way that it always seemed to be.
I saw too much detail, and with no real obsession to apply that detail to,
I just lived, secretly (beyond my own control) soaking it all in.
I never lived for time, I just lived, ever hungry, growing ever more debunked,
Inwardly rambunctious, yet listless.
Endless listlessness.
So much precious time wasted for a certain sense of freedom,
Yet never the true Madonna.
Then six thousand, four hundred and eighty-four days after the agonizing start the question was answered,
And who could have possibly imagined the multitudes of new,
Yet unanswered questions would be fathomed in the realization?
Where I stand in thought has all been thought before,
Yet pride flourishes in the personal accomplishment,
Seems that the pain was not all for none after all.
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