The Needle


My mind is ever working, and it seeks

A puzzling question, new problem to solve;

Locked truth, and only I can find the key.

I run to them, but truly run from this:

The bane of my existence, restlessness.

My mind cannot sustain this weary pace

Without a thing to think on, occupy.

When nothing will come forward, I must search;

A fuel to engage this strained machine.

Tobacco is my constant company,

A haze of smoke surrounds me, like my thoughts;

And sometimes I will play the violin,

For music may well ease the passing time;

But these things will not take away this dulled,

Faint repetition of my vacant thoughts.

I pace and wander, hanging on each hour.

Will nothing come? Addiction's at the door;

A silver needle on the mantle waits

To occupy this void, and to destroy

This aimless energy I hold at bay.

Is this world now so free of evil schemes

That I'll no longer be of any use?

Then may not I see fit to drown my mind?

Thus sometimes I'll give in to this abuse.