a terrible riddle

irrational, illogical, the worry sets in

the normal, the happiness retreats as

the slow fog riddles my soul with holes

like a woodpecker storing acorns in the

side of my home one at a time until

the walls are no more

and one strong breeze might just make it collapse

but still i stay

a prisoner with no escape

thinking i can choose what to say, when to stay

but can i? or is this just a game

that our condition insists upon

traditions resists the breaking open of a

bond to our past, our history that holds us back

from our potential, our true will,

when we have so many people to care

for, to be responsible

for, and our own crippling doubt

that maybe this isn't where i need to be right now