This is the first poem I ever wrote, many years ago.
At Mediocrity’s Height time passes by, considerable in measure,
And my life is filled with activities of leisure.
I am the contented savage, devouring hours of pleasure, relaxation divine,
Finding an abundance of wounded time.
With the death of expectations and the birth of routine,
My soul accepts satisfaction as creativity and talent travel deep in my dreams.
At Mediocrity’s Height the lowest floor of expectation is reached,
And life’s useless projects remain incomplete.
Witness Sun and Moon passing slowly by my fate;
I will never reach their sky as envy turns to hate.
The wind beats my face invoking me to –
Surpass self-inflicted limits,
Stop focusing on abilities I lack.
I am suffering the misery of apathy as I light a candle for my lie.
At Mediocrity’s Height one will never shine,
Rather, soar grand in the shadows of the mind.