I don’t know what I’m doing or what’s to be done
A good three quarters through the journey
Living into an age of flails and epic fails
I thought of myself as an easygoing child
Or so I was told by those who would have known
And who doesn’t know casts the stone
And even as a child I vacillated
Between dull contentment and lacerating anxiety
And hence I never know what’s to be done
And hence I recur to the middle course of routine
Or rather wish that such a course should obtain

The progression is rather simple
From bright-eyed child
To wild-eyed youth
To heavy-eyed sour bitter old man
Who knows not what he does

Do I screw up more than others do
Should I compose while under the influence
Should I pursue the truth of theme
Or instead dedicate myself to practicing
The skills that mark true artistry
Should I restrict myself to what I know
Since I know that restriction frees the mind
Or should I speculate at large
Admitting without discrimination
The elegant the perfunctory the noble and the banal
Or should I sulk in silence
Awaiting the next peevish outburst
And curse my lack of inspiration
My lack of decorum
My defect