I must come to terms

With the fact

That I will forever be discontent.

I will always want for more, different,


Despite not knowing what that means.

No matter how many times I scrape the inside of my heart,

I feel that I’ll never know what it really wants
What would forever keep it quiet.

That burning inside of me.

But should I try to quiet it?

Pour water on my soul.

Should the goal be to lull it sleep,

So that I can simply be “satisified”?

Is it enough?

Is anything enough really?

It used to embarrass me when people called me ambitious

Because it didn’t make sense to me.

Who are they calling ambitious,

I thought,

When really I am just fleeing this feeling of discontent.

Running away from yourself isn’t ambitious.

It’s cowardly.

No one really cares,

Do they,

What I do.

I am the only one who has to deal with the consequences of being me.

I may be proud some days

But most I just flounder between insecure and unsure.

How long will I be able to deal with myself in this particular manifestation?

This particular version of me.

Can I keep worker bee me at bay?

How do you decide what you will become when there are so many options?

So much possibility.

I can’t stop.

I am compelled

Like an animals fleeing a barn on fire.

Leaving charred remains in their wake.

It isn’t fun to not be able to sit still.

To be content.

It looks like success.

But sometimes,

Just sometimes,

It feels like obsession.