Sixty Minutes Is Far More Than an Hour

There is an existential worry,
A fear that runs deeper than the bone,
One that talks to you in the middle of the night in whispers,
Shouts,
Shrieks,
Rousing you from what fitful sleep you’ve stolen from the sandman,
With nothing more than one word… and maybe a few more,

Failure…
Not good enough…
Never enough no matter what…

Echoing the words I’ve heard so long I can’t remember the first time it was said,
You have to push on,
Press on,
Carry on,
Keep moving forward because the last few steps you’ve seen already and know –
More than the falling stars,
Higher than the mountain of debt,
Longer than there’s been fish in the ocean,
The next step has to,
Just fucking has to lead to the promised land you’ve been lied to about all your goddamn life,
And if it doesn’t you can count yourself lucky to be in that number that goes marching angrily,
Stoically,
Grimly,
Laughingly,
In…
As the saints bleed right there in front of you,
Their crimson life essence coloring the path that leads to another lousy day in the salt mines,
Another tear-watered way that ends only when you can’t enjoy what little of the
good life was ever within your grasp –

In the end,
It makes no difference whether you’re the guy on the t.v. or you yourself,
Sitting back and slapped into inspiration,
That inexorable movement toward the blank page upon which you must finally begin
to tell something that resembles the truth…
And just a little piece of that truth has something to do with how goddamn hard it is to get up every morning, when all you really want to do is die –
But that wouldn’t help, because you still have to pay the rent.

End.rev2 31 October 2010, 8.18 p.m., Brooklyn.

© David Mark Speer