It isn’t easy finding time to write
In every day, regardless of demands
Upon your mental bandwidth and despite
Dismissal from those who misunderstand

The freedom that exists in structured tasks,
Such as the ritual of sitting still
And giving yourself latitude to ask,
“If this word doesn’t work, then which one will?”

I wouldn’t call it discipline- perhaps it
Is something in the satisfaction of
Creating things; Perhaps it’s even habit-
But at its root, it’s doing what you love.

So in successes, bask in jubilation
And try to overlook sleep deprivation.

When asked to do a task that one will fail,
And no-one else could possibly fail less,
To acquiesce and know one won’t prevail,
Will always hopes of better things depress.

When bearing blows for others is the norm,
Perceived a toll for traveling the road,
Conditioned thus, it seems to be bad form
To point out the disparity in load.

So when new leadership makes a request
On finding to what you’re habituated,
That one speak up when one is feeling stressed,
With dreams of normalcy one’s inculcated.

Alas, while old assumptions will persist,
The status quo and hope can’t coexist.

Just who can say what makes a splendid day?
Could it be weather, neither gray nor sunny?
Or lovely friends, or impromptu soirees
At which a game predictably turns funny?

Or maybe it’s that mix of novelty
And mourning those familiar things now past,
Although some aspects of the memory
Persist, despite unlikeliness to last.

Perhaps these complications and desires,
Thus born of what’s expected and believed,
Engender joy that naturally transpires
When perfect parity has been achieved.

The confluence of wistfulness and verity
Are sadly, an inestimable rarity.