The goalpost has lost its meaning, I'm dribbling without aim,
I don't want that 1 cr package, nor do I wish to any title claim.
This was supposed to be Nirvana, why am I feeling rudderless and lost?
With nothing to move me forward, I've found serenity —but at what cost?
Without a dream anchoring my heart, it's better to be dead,
The goal could be writing daily, leaving nothing unsaid.
I don't want to be read widely, touching a life is enough,
But for that, I need to focus, ignore all the other stuff.
On a sunny day, I'm enthralled, by a thousand random goals,
From publishing a self-help book, to saving several suicidal souls.
To meaningfully make a difference, I've to ruthlessly cull some,
Chase a few, not hedge my bets, let it leave me scared and numb.
What am I if not a poet? I've put in that basket all my eggs,
I don't need acclaim or money, you read and reflect is all the poet begs.
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