Forty Two

So, what is the point of it all anyway?

Life, universe and everything?

Why do I wake up each day and go to work

Tired even before I'm started.

Fixated on goals I don't remember setting

Working for people I don't like

Why? Such an earthling question to ask.

Why?

When all I want to do is write.

I want to write about honey filled buttercups     

And sun kissed peaches   

Of curly hair that just won’t be tamed 

About kindled spirits and broken dreams

I want to write about values and cultural extremes

I want to write about frail eyes but strong hopes

And about sunlight that creeps in from between thin leaves

About raindrops that tap on my window, hoping to be let in

About myths and prophecies 

And about rivers that always meet the vast seas

But all I do is shake my pillow violently each morning.

Hoping that the dreams I lost that night would tumble out

So I read, about others that let go.

In between scandals and violence

Are dreams coming true, silently breeding hope

Like the wind knocking on your heart for a chance to blow away misery.

Like living each day with the wonderment of the child 
that saw his first magic trick

And there are those many pages later

In between real estate and oddly shaped classifieds

A lost soul, a mourning, a life

With incomplete dreams? Perhaps

Or maybe a lifelong of happiness and contentment

And here I am at an age of misconstrued ideas and confused ambitions

At crossroads that lead nowhere or everywhere.

And I hear myself whisper "It's always a choice."

(For those who didn't get the reference in the title. Douglas Adams in his book the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, writes about a computer called Deep Thought that takes 7 million years to find the answer to Life, Universe and Everything and the answer is 42. So yeah, this is my Life Universe and Everything poem or something like that.)