Coleen Thorpe

August 18, 1998-Jamaica
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My purpose

 

It’s morning again, it’s morning,

Morning to you, dearest sun,

As you peak through my window,

Stretching your arms so desperately,

To greet me with a warm touch,

But, alas dearest sun,

Not even your warm touch can remove the despair on my face.

 

It’s morning again, it’s morning.

I articulate an involuntary yawn,

As I stretch to wake myself from slumber,

Lifting my entire weight as a daily chore,

Then I question the world, my entire existence under these sheets.

But alas, I did not find the answer that I was looking for,

Only to be bombarded with more questions,

About my choices, mistakes, and regrets.

Questioning this reality at this very moment.

 

Pondering the path that I have chosen,

That I can’t bear anymore,

How long do I have to endure?

For that, I am not sure.

 

Each step I make, I bear the icy touch of the floor,

As my joints are sore,

How long do I have to endure?

 

Each fiber of my being goes autopilot,

Succumbing to this daily routine,

Am I fooled by this bleak society?

To believe this my purpose,

To wake, to eat, to drink, to sleep,

Then the cycle repeats.

 

 

 

 
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