A Man of Production

A Man Productive Man

A constant teething of stress always bides my heart. As rigid thoughts of insufficiency crowd my mind. I become strung out like an animal hide to the high sun. Dehydrated of peace, of any serenity if I ever had any.

I am a coastline of desolation as I always fear I have not done enough. Sopped in the downpour of sadness as I feel no closer to my accomplishments with every passing day. I am tough to my very second of each hour, of each minute.

I may smile as I pass by, but guilt throngs my heart. Like a room two sizes too small for a hundred souls. Shoulder to shoulder my guilt aligns with my happiness, my serenity. Slowly pressing it out as I wake each morning.

Becoming of victim of my own thoughts. Pressing myself to do better, but even when I do, it does not feel to be enough. I could write a million words a day and still feel insufficient in my endeavors. Rarely will you catch me not thinking of my next step, my next word, my next story.

I create new projects whenever I feel another is becoming too dull. But no longer do I abandon projects I see fit in alignment with my others. So I am stuffed with ideas, with work as is a turkey  stuffed to be feasted upon.

Yet, I carry much guilt if I pleasure in the lesser things of life. Even in conversation with friends I find myself thinking of what needs to be done. Dare find me relaxed, then something must be wrong. I am a mad man with a monster to be created.

Still, I have yet to find all the parts that work together, that match well enough that I can call it complete. With what ever it is that is not complete, I feel I am a burden to myself and those around me.

I feel the angst of many burdening thoughts and feelings, but I mean well intentions, but lack well thoughts. I am a creature of doing, of improving. I have been the drunken slob and the lost sloth of the road, but I wish, nor ever will find myself back in that state.

As anxious as I am now, wild with contorts of what productivity is, I am more useful than before. I can see clearer and am more stable in my emotions. Though I seem to lack greatly, the ability to remain still, I am grounded.

I feel I have roots and am in no dire need to cry out to be lifted from pit of despair. But find me with wishes to vacation, now you are the mad one. There is much for me to do and do it I shall. Slow it may come together. Some days I may be wildly pressed with sadness and fall, but my work never suffers the tragedy of my heart.
Anyone else have to constantly be working to feel alive?

Want more to devour with your eyes? A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words

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