DOUBT

A poem about a man facing mid-twenties crisis. A very dark one. Read it at your own risk.

Standing on the bed of stones with closed eyes,
I retrospect my life from childhood through youth to the present.

From an unknown boy with no expectations to a busy person with weekly deadlines,
From disregard of innocence to the slight of wisdom,
I have come a long way, by yardsticks of achievements and successes, though not so long by yardsticks of age and experience.

Standing between these parallel tracks with closed eyes,
I seek the reason for standing here in the first place.

Seen through a third eye,
I should be happy and contented,
passionate and excited,
about the journey of life laying ahead.
But am I? Or is my smiling face pretended?

Ironically this question gives me the answer I seek.
It's DOUBT, from which I suffer.
That nagging second thought in my head,
attached with every phase and every thread,
of my existence.

Bringing hollowness to the moments of happiness.
Am I genuinely happy or is this a desperate attempt to drive out my inner sadness?

Bringing estrangement in the presence of companionship.
Am I really one of the herd, or an introvert parasite feeding on their affection?

Bringing phoniness to the moments of altruism,
Do I really care for the poor person, or is this just an act to satisfy my false pride? Bringing emptiness to the joy of success,
Was I really better than my competitors or they didn't care to put in their full effort?

Putting obstacles in the path of my attempts,
Am I really passionate about these, or are these whims of a dilettante at work?

Exasperated by the misery of my doubtful existence,
I stand here, on the ballast of death with closed eyes as the passenger of death approaches,
To feel the sound vibrations of the pricking stones under my feet,
To hear the piercing scream of the siren in my ears,
To feel the soft blow of the rushing wind on my face,
To feel the crunch in my bones upon the hit of the steel,
To see the last flash of my body soaked in the pool of my blood,
To embrace the certainty of death.

Reviews

[Dayran]

I'm inclined to say, ' here is an author's author '....which is not a compliment. It is the heart of the muse, at this time, still a seeker. Perhaps what may be surprising is that such an inquirer has not learnt to enjoy himself. I would consider that curios, don't you? Great write!

[MOON]

You are a seeker , trouble yourself with the questions and then find the answer within.

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

Compulsive wording reeks the madness of the words, well done, good read.

[hmm]

A powerful, profound read,
enjoyed