|Nom Kinnear King|
Why is there always something
standing in the way of rest?
I'm sick I'm overscheduled;
with the time I've got, I do my best.
Be it memories' with holding,
or future planned distress,
it seems I can't get away from
this feeling in my chest.
I look at the things that are breaking me,
and think, "what luck is this!"
I've got more good than the world has,
I live in situational bliss.
There is plenty of food on the table,
and love; more than I could wish.
Yet I find myself looking at crevices,
and wondering if, here, are the things I miss.
I want an evening for me,
with aloneness and pages and less;
so my thoughts can remind me,
my heartbeat re-steady,
and I and my soul decompress.
I want to be selfish,
I want to rest.