This poem reveals why sometimes I'm my biggest enemy.
I'm always too focused on the things ahead of me.
Uncontrollably, my mind wanders to places unimaginable; it's out of my reach.
A pitiful, yet ridiculous anomaly.
Pitiful because only headache comes from strain.
And only stress comes from worry.
Ridiculous because I can control this passion that causes pain.
I choose to pursue this vigor because if I don't, everything becomes blurry.
Without enough effort, the purpose of my goal is blurry.
Without enough effort, censure is clearly hostile instead of passively fuzzy.
Except I can't tell what enough is, just that I should do it.
And I'm only human, but I have tried to prove too much at this unpredictable age.
Having passion isn't always such a great thing.
And it's never good without some self-control and self-realization.
My passion flows anywhere that I wish to thrive.
I've realized that I can't do that - it's become too burdensome.
I'll start to take one step at a time, with a much more centered and transcending passion.
