Halfway Through (the Year).

A poem on fleeting years and not doing enough.

Time runs out fast, doesn’t it? I’m nearing twenty-five, and, while I know I may yet do so much more, my youth is slipping out of my heart.

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Poem text.

Now it’s halfway through the year,
but it’s like the end is near
since the year has been so tough.
What I have may disappear—
everything I hold so dear—
in illusions and their cost.
I’ve been counting through the year
my achievements out of fear
that I haven’t done enough.
And to me it seems so clear,
barely halfway through the year,
that another year is lost.

Waiting by the Window by Carl Holsøe, via WikiArt.

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(Turning) Putrefactive.

Always Pointless, Pointless Still.