Two Week’s Notice

I am pressed on all sides about the roles that I serve
And to what end they will take me
With a benefit
a reward here and there
What is my goal, what am I attempting to attain?
When the direct deposits clear and my account balance has increased for a time
Much is already spoken for
Whether for the phone that I do not call on
The car I drive only upon need
The insurance I hope I never am made to use
Hospital bills for doctors who tell me things that the internet could have told me for a grand less
What really is left for me? To me?
What really is there to live for?
The clothes I buy on a whim?
To appease some hunger in me that cannot be abated by a new maxi dress
Or new winter boots
Excitement when packages read my name and clothes which still smell like store shelves
Shoes that I am still breaking in
I am dressing more for survival in my own storms than shelter against the winter cold
But the jeans fade in the washer
The shirts shrink in the dryer
I need more shoes to match more outfits
And I am back to the racks to purchase more of what I will only lose
What really is left for me? To me?
What really is there to live for?
I am finding now that the glamor that growing older is mistaken for hurts now more than it will
People twice my age drift in and out of their offices to get a check
To pay the bills
To clock in and out
To go home to their lazy boys and eat processed dinners in front of the same reruns
And wake to the next day and repeat
They’ve become numb to the desire for more
Though supervisors and customers ask for more attention
more time
more work
With no promise of more in return
Necessity is both the pain and the medication
The wound and the salve
I am experiencing the war within as passions clash against possibilities
And Necessity takes the heads of both
It’s victory neither my gain or loss
I fall into a hazy day slumber
Suddenly aroused from time to time by my own ambitions
Before I am lulled again by inhibitions
I am constantly asking myself
What is left of me?
Childhood optimism and bubble gum dreams are now pegged immaturity
Development has been delayed
I am clinging to the unraveling threads of what was in hopes of crafting what will be
But the patchwork is shoddy and there are too many rips and runs to keep my blood warm
The bill is due
The phones are ringing
The world is steadily moving on as time moves forward
I wonder
What really is left for me? To me?
What really is there to live for?


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