Worry

We worry;
about our climate, our authority, and our presentation.
We worry about the possible harsh outcomes rooted in anticipation.
We worry endlessly; we worry selfishly.
While our hearts sink from the wincing realization of a fellow man’s identity being reduced to need,
We tend to forget that genre of worry.
But then our worry returns.
The incapable chase of perfection in each role we play continues to entertain our minds.
The mother, slowly frayed and tired from child’s play,
Will worry about the mortgage.
The worker, unable to accomplish the goal of his career,
Will worry if his genes will be strong enough to produce another that can.
This temporary encired anxiety holds us, wraps us, controls us.
It outdances, outruns, and defeats us.
Although for mere moments we tend to vacation from worry, the mind searches for the return of that familiar company.
Nonethesles, worry is a consumer, it is a wretch.
But, worries cannot produce the tangible, unshakable fear of not having any worries at all, just like the man we have forgotten on the curb.

 

Todays best new poem was written by Alexandra Radetzky.

 
 

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