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by Andrew S Adams

existential angst has run it's course,
and instead of
tears shooting out
its shots pouring in;

the same bottle that
fed us as infants
feeds us once again,
and it's the same principle;
(maturity is a redefinition of context,
a revision of habits we've
adapted for the here and now;)

but as we internalize
the externalization we once sought as
our saving grace,
inside we sacrifice so much to save face,
and as we replace with spare parts what
has been broken off we
succinctly understand we will never again
be whole and that
the illusion of self control will not serve us much longer;

and so we strive and struggle
to thrive while trouble tears out
scrap by scrap the last vestige
of what we'd once believed;

and we're relieved once we see
that there's still something
else on the horizon;
a tentative timeline
for total withdrawl,
an incentive to repent
in time for last call, a
chance for a dance at the Midnight Ball;

we wait only for a way out,
that's all.


Posted on 08/09/2008
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Charlie Morgan on 08/10/08 at 09:11 PM

...it is easy for me to see in the crack thru the door, a lovely tribute to some of mankind's frailties...like thoreau said, 'we all lead lives of quiet desperation', we call it angst...good one.

Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 08/13/08 at 04:44 PM


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