Wading through a hundred unread emails, rather than savoring James Joyce,
Filling your calendar with meetings and to-dos, keeping busy is a choice.
You may lament hunching all day through, that for yourself, you have no time,
It's you who said yes to all those requests, nine times out of nine.
Compulsively reading and replying to emails, afraid to lose the signal in the noise,
Buried under the weight of others' expectations, taking stress is a choice.
You can whine and claim victimhood, trade freedom for responsibilities,
Ruminate and bear it all stoically, but it's all self-inflicted, please.
Hesitant to send that email out, I still haven't found my voice,
Not writing that sonnet for a loved one, having regret, is a choice.
All the potential dates that I let slip by, the career breaks I didn't take,
I lived a passive, almost sheltered life, adventureless for Christ's sake.
Joy, too, is a choice I can exercise, pen a poem every day,
I don't have to earn the right to be happy; it should precede, what do you say?
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