POETRY / POEM / Purpose
"What To Do?"
And so here I sit,
Surveying a foreign, alien land,
A life of which I am not the cause,
In a land I did not choose to live,
In a home I did not construct.
Writing in a language I did not invent,
Spelling words that are given to me whole,
Using a syntax I did not create,
With a pen made somewhere in the distant East,
and paper from trees and mills unknown.
I inhabit a life I did not intend,
Eating food I did not grow,
Drinking wine I did not press,
Reading words I did not write,
Watching films I did not make.
All this material and substance,
given me without regret, without remorse,
without me asking, without me begging,
without me wanting or desiring,
without my knowledge or my consent.
And yet here it is, so do something!
Do anything! Be constructive! Be creative!
You are a human that must be doing,
not just being. Get on with it already!
Make something of all this mess!
And yet what to make of it? What to do?
It's an embarrassment of riches,
A shame if it should all go to waste,
You had best get busy, and create a new thing,
Yet, what to do?
- Pseudo-Boethius