Poem: The Thinker

All day busy
thinking about things.
No music, no reading,
no interruptions.
Just the noise of the world
and my thoughts
the wistful, flighty,
taciturn thoughts.
Tiny fears, smaller hopes,
loves and insecurities.
There seems to be no end,
no decision to be reached.
Just thought, a moment
of concentration held
on one topic.
Like housing or money
or things I should change.
Wishes, complaints,
my neverending quest
to convince myself
that life is good
and I have every reason
to feel good
and be proud of my actions
and my accomplishments.

This does not come easy.
At some unknown resevior
a feeling insists primaly
that something is wrong.
It's my job to fix it,
as certainly no one else will.
It's very wrongness is my fault.
As God of my realm of perception
I control all that occurs.
If fault exists,
the fault is mine.

So I continue to think.
Trying desperqatly to fix
whatever it is
that's wrong
with my life.