Whats Next - Poem about existential crisis

Do I have anything left to write?
I don’t think I’m sad anymore
(if that’s what got me started)
or even happy to be honest
I’m just
caught up, I guess

I keep my schedule tight
put things on my plate until they start spilling
& make sure that I don’t cut me slack
Every day, I keep getting better at
pretending to be pretending

What else is growing up anyway?
it’s all an act you know
feeling too much but acting tough
like you learnt too much from pain that you start running away from the opposite
getting used to stress more than rest
and boast about it

When you’re small & innocent
you look at growing up as something that will free you
from those chains in your feet which
smashed you on the floor
everytime you try to fly
to the places forbidden

But when you actually get to those places
all you wanna do is run back
where the fantasy started from
and looked exciting from afar

Those were the times when you were you
not someone trying to be someone
because that’s what someone decided
for you to be
You did things that made you “you”

Now I’m left along with these pretenders with no way back
They are running after things
dragging me along
in the search of meaning & peace
some looking for it in their passion
some in love
and some in art

But is it really there?
Will they ever find it?
Will I?
And what are gonna do with that meaning
once found
What if the meaning itself turns out to be
meaningless?

What’s next?


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