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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This poem is brand new. It's about a life that consists of little and the sting of idleness.

Submitted: October 06, 2018

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Submitted: October 06, 2018




My world is different than the average folks, as boredom so soaks.

My life doesn't consist of work and events...I must make alone make sense.

The clock hardly my friend--restless awareness it's hands lend.

So many seconds, minutes and hours of seeming non-produstive behavior and line the corners of my mind.

It's tough to be proud of yourself for seeming nothing and vastness...a life of less.

Everyone busy these days--yet hallowness sits on my trays.

Disability as a life is a dark void and blankness--although crisp and real never fakeness.

To explore your thoughts with every wakin morn and moment free..enough to drive one mad you see.

Oh to have many things to do and the energy to do them..what a precious delight in the earthly plight.

Our endeavors found in the mind and not is not just the seed, but the entire tree.

I once took busyness for granted yu see...thought it would last forever, but like so many things it did flee.

Now thoughts and words they are my life...sadly they bring their own strife.

© Copyright 2019 Gail Ligon. All rights reserved.

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