Grey winter days fly by in an unchanging daze, I throw myself into work seeking positive change

  While I grow in steady measure, things feel the same, I often wonder if my intelligence is the one to blame

  Complacence and contentment, diametrically opposed

  My life is either stable and dull or in massive changing throes

  Great stillness, a man filled with self doubts seeking somewhere to go

  Yet so disgusted by this mundane life of mine I feel fit to suddenly blow

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  Day to day everything is 'just fine' but days turn to months of me whiling time

  The wants of common man are none of mine, what I need is a purpose, perhaps even divine

  Yet my options are few, my connections near nil, I've no rich family who will front my quest's bill

  Because I am unhappy my tempers oft become ill, I need someplace to utilize all this skill

  with rifle, mind or tongue, a warrior novelist who longs to live by the gun.

  Such ideals are lofty and so far away, even now I've lost another grey day

  How long until these labors of mine to pay? How long before I finally find my way?

  You who share my struggle know my thoughts all to well, like a revolving door at the gates of hell

  Months spent as if circling the drain, that damned weariness, a soul-deep pain.

  Read and write, speak and fight, conflict or flight

  Unable to fully sleep at night. Unable to truly see the light

  Through all this damned grey monotony

  Bleeeuuuhhgg, you know? Its hard to feel accomplished, despite learning french and writing 2 novels and getting back in shape. Even the weather up here is meh this year and for the first time in years, I want the snow to sod off already so I can go swimming in the lakes. It seems like I've run out of things to spice up while I'm shut-up in my apartment. Maybe I'll finally get around to improving my drawing skills, that or It'll be on to book three.