Waste seems somewhat of a meaningless
title.
What is waste, and where does it go
once we are done with it?
Am I a piece of waste?
Where is what I aspire
or care to be?
I have questions with no answers.
Although the intent must have fled
with my respect
and my misery.
This waste is numb.
Perhaps I'm far too much to deal with.
Perhaps I'm not assertive enough.
Enough.
Defined:
The expectation or amount
of expectation to which
I aspire to fill.
Enough.
Perhaps I'll just never be enough.
Shoulders are sore and knuckles
are etched in red,
from the pain of my life to which I
scour the highest of heights,
and swim to the lowest of lows
to find what you tell me is
enough.
Finding nothing but old scraps of wasted paper
and orange peels which have lost their scent of citrus
I've found that I've ended that reckless journey in a
junkyard.
Among the foulest manure fill which devours my lungs
in stench from your
expectations.
I wander,
and though you tell me to keep searching.
I look
and see.
Masked by the dirt and shallow
self-indulgence.
I found a prize.
There are many a treasure to be found in the junk yard of my
self-perception.
Shiny rings and bicycle tires. Lost notes and memories which
were scrapped by accident with the junk drawer.
It was there, in the yard, I found the greatest treasure.
A block of wood which once hung upon the door to my
heart.
It read:
You are worthy.
You. Are. Worthy.
