Will I Ever
A fixed-form poem about life that ain’t seem fixable no matter what.
Will I ever look at my life
And think: This is complete?
Will it ever be free of strife
But instead comfy and neat?
Will I finally be secure
Next to someone who’ll never leave —
Drop-dead gorgeous yet strong and mature,
His whole heart just for me on lace sleeve?
Will I ever not dread the dark
At the end of each passing day
In an effort to keep inner spark
From the cold breath of deadly dismay?
Will I ever learn to get paid
By excelling in things that I love?
Does a job have to be what you hate?
What’s my barrier to leap above?
Will I ever get rid of blind spots,
Imperfections and character flaws?
Will I learn to succeed against odds
And just laugh at natural laws?
Will I ever be worthy of things
That my heart desires like mad?
Will I ever feel like I’ve grown wings,
Or it’s only reserved for the dead?
Is this all but some meaningless jive,
Me too weak to strike hard, to compete?
Will I ever look at my life
With the sigh of relief: “It’s complete”?
October 14, 2020. N.B.
About the Creator
Nica Breeze
I started writing fairy-tales before I could spell the letters right, at age 6. My fiction and poetry are about one’s private world and love-hate relationship with reality.
I emigrated to America from Eastern Europe, found home in Montana.
Keep reading
More stories from Nica Breeze and writers in Poets and other communities.
Strong lady
In the vast tapestry of existence, there exists a remarkable figure, a lady of unparalleled strength and character. She embodies the very essence of resilience, standing tall amidst the tumultuous currents of life. In every aspect of her being, from the depths of her spirit to the radiance of her soul, she exudes an aura of unwavering fortitude.
By Angel Ann Saju2 days ago in Poets
Just Sixty Seconds
Oliver sat at a cold, grey steel-covered table. He knew he was next. The longer he sat here, the more confident he knew he wouldn’t make it. His hands were tied to the chair he was sitting on, pushed up against the steel table. A small camera in the corner of the ceiling with a tiny red flashing light was the only thing he was focused on. He felt sick to the stomach. He knew he didn’t have long.
By Joshua Maggs8 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.