It's not sadness; I'm worried, I'll not reach my goal,
It's not satisfying, the journey, has started taking its toll.
I'm indifferent, not enthused, if perchance I succeed,
In the larger scheme of things, how that'll matter indeed.
It's not joy, pure energy, that's looking for discharge,
I get irritated and angry, the world appears a big farce.
I start tasks a dozen, don't feel the need for much sleep,
The more the goals take over, the more the rot runs deep.
My mood is sombre, my thoughts run fast,
I'm obsessed with future, and mired in the past.
I keep pacing the corridors, am restless and twitchy,
Try to fill the inner void, by listening in loop to Lionel Richie.
I straddle occasionally the magical worlds, of mania and depression,
But I'm mostly a normal next door guy, is my solemn confession.
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