Drowning

I'm drowning in a stream of uselessness.
The stones upon which I step seem to quiver and shake.
I can't see past yesterday.

I'm drowning in my skills of fruitlessness. My history is success... that is profane.
Tomorrow comes too early.

Bitter am I? to that which brings me daily bread?
Aye, and I loathe it.
Grateful am I? for that which makes me myself?
Nay, for I abhor it.

Shall I curl up? Or shall I strike?
My spine is bending, will it break?
I seem to think it would.
I seem to think it should.
How ill does that seem?
Still, I'm drowning in a stream.

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