Is the riddling doubt, like a tiring joke,
the device that keeps punching me through?
Like a thin piece of paper, I’m found full of holes.
With shiny steel CLICK, cut anew.

In the past I made due without reasons, or good ones,
but free time was reason enough.
I suppose time is money, and work isn’t cheap,
so my reasons have now called my bluff.

I’m left with a feeling, a great sense of loss,
reprimanded by fresh, nagging pain.
All my youth, I abandoned in more ways than one.
It’s a thing that I cannot regain.

Now the onslaught of life and the waning of craft
has beset me, and hollowed me out.
So the things that I held there inside of myself,
they have slipped through the holes.
I’m without.

No more time, nor more way, no more writings to write.
Still so tired, but rest can’t be had.
Goodbye past. It was fine while it lasted, but look!
All that’s left is this poem.
How sad.