Goaled

I explode into space!

Deliver me from this hum-drum existence:

prospects of cubicle tones of grey

and neutral encounters.

Diminished to my skill set--

lost amongst the quandary of wage-earning

and wasted mind--

my time, life and energy,

is a servant to a baseless economy.

I stretch toward the stars--

they are as limitless as my mind-scape--

seas of color, potential, and I am awed.

My dream eyes glimpse twirling nebulae

and parallel universes:

and at my fingertips:
server, insurance, or health tech.

I am in the job of anonymous--

a creature without a rudder--

a last-ditch effort to become something marvelous.

I feel like dead wood

choking up the rushing river of humanity.

Educated, capable

yet my dreams amount to nothing

but a series of false starts,

market potential,

goods, services,

commodified

to be bought and sold as befits

the restless march of greed.

Nagging doubt,

I feel my being amount to nothing:

my mind pruned by meaningless phrases,

whittled down to a nave.

Each day I quest for the extraordinary--

dig my liquid soul into

a life less than ordinary--

to escape a path, narrow and lagging:

of instincts less than lacking.

Heaven is on a river, with tall trees

and a fresh breeze

and me on my knees being pleased

to be breathing and not needing

anything more than to be blessed

in this moment.

And yet

here I am--
long and far

from the straight shot--

goal-oriented, pre-ordained

wiz-kid with a hope for a plan

to have all her ducks in a row.

The five-year plan:

pension, an income,

401k, and stock options.

Bitter luck kid,
the top sunk us.

Free market: you're a liar,

a euphemism for empire,

a New World Feudal Order

caged by debt and survival.

I lost my love to

higher education.

I thought I struck gold

when I found myself.

But she's gone, my love is gone.

I'm stuck here

aiming toward a lift to the endless.