yabs

Rarely a day
Of true productivity
Seldom a week
Of true accomplishment

A sleeping fool
A backseat passenger
To a life
I once held tightly

Knowingly discontent
With how things are
Also a malcontent
Of how things were

No crossroads
No forking paths
No options
To choose from

Just a long straight road
A narrow path
That passed all choices
Years and years ago

Only one thing left
No other alternative
Hoping to get back on track
Via the last and only choice open

So many questions
No time, no answers
Barely conscious then
Now awake but way too late