Most of us
We try
To scratch out
A living
With our broken bics
Blood and ink
Dripping meanly 
In a vague attempt 
To trace the idea 
Of a future
From somewhere 
Deep inside
And paint it 
Against the world
With its cruel way 
Of crumbling dreams 
Just before 
We reach them
Or wake up 
Or both

And we struggle so
To make sense 
Of this endless 
Nightmare 
Envying the wings
Of birds 
with one eye
And shooting them
From the sky 
With another
Whilst all the while
Setting things
By the angels 
And the demons
The snakes 
And the ladders 
And somehow 
Missing the irony
That it's all
A game
In a lid-less box 
With the rules 
All messed up
And written backwards 

We struggle 
So diligently
So persistently 
With all these things
Forgetting we are 
Playing 
And that somewhere
Along the way
More often than not 
We're supposed 
To allow ourselves
Enjoyment