2009-08-03 - 7:53 p.m.
Is it the hundredth time already?
You don't know.
You've already lost count.
Your fingers are only ten.
You can do more with your toes,
but wouldn't it be funny?
What are you now?
An exhausted squirrel,
constantly running on a spinning wheel?
Who'll (want to) take your place,
while you're having your meal?
There's no winter here,
so you can't hibernate.
There's a lot to fear,
like catching the last train to glory
way too late.
This senseless paranoia
makes you pick up your pace.
Wherever you are,
you're not always sure what to face.
Yet you also dread
the thought of being stagnated.
The Author
