Old Poems & Writing

Pococurante

Now to the root of my problem,
My ambition is small and not persistent,
And I don't care.
Pococurante, Pococurante.
I was always a melancholy kid,
And I can't bring myself to live for my own interests,
Those interests are always too minuscule or too big-picture.
No happy medium can be found.
What happens, happens,
And I am fine with that.
You could even throw me into a tornado,
I could handle it, I could handle it.