On Sundays, I drown a little more

Tears prick my eyes.
I gulp as though I’m taking on water.
I shiver as if winter still lingers in this April spring.
I cannot comprehend life, nor what it is supposed to mean.

In our younger days we were made promises.
You could become and do whatever you wanted.
We were told that the world was our oyster and that it was bountiful.
But these promises turned to dust becoming nought but false and fanciful.

The melancholy reality of adulthood stings the childish heart.
I haven’t learnt all I wanted and I have not perfected art.
It is too late to think on what I could have been if I had
for one minute taken my existence seriously.

By this age my mother had had her three kids, her marriage, and her divorce.
Yet I sit nine-to-five at a keyboard trying to scrape enough for my own place.
We were promised it all but the world crumbled beneath our feet.
We were never permitted to grow into who we were really meant to be.

For the first time in my life I have come to find
that I am worth more than I ever believed.
CTRL C & CTRL V dominate a life I never thought I’d live to see
and now, truth grips me by the throat, laughing as I choke.

Could I have made a small difference in this infinite place
if I had not convinced myself I would not live to see this age?
Would I have pursued a meaningful take on a career, or
learned to live without being guided by my illnesses and fear?

Is it all just a little too late?
Am I bound to this mundane fate?