Biding time, yearning for the arms of acceptance, before that ship must sail on.
Light from the statistical tunnel,
a mere glint before night would funnel
his cone of spiraling resistance
into an abyss of circumstantial happenstance.
What did it mean? No one knew.
Sometimes we're not meant to understand you.
Acceptance tendered like a virtual lifeline;
no approval, how could he feel fine?
Aweigh the anchor of a now righted ship.
Leave this port; mark the trip.
See them run the length of the dock,
waving, but do you slow the clock?
That ship has sailed. So what?
The chain grinds through this gut.
Time is but an empty space as
our vista widens into a quiet place.
(Life as a member of Writing.com leaves one quizzical. Seeking acceptance, not knowing your worth or where you stand, you try to measure yourself against the accolades of others and cannot figure out how it all computes. How much stock does one put into their own standing in the community? When you are about ready to give up, someone/something comes along to pull you back in. It's like they're yanking your chain. No reason to believe anyone is being disingenuous. So, in the end, you just have to get away and find peace of mind to make sense of oneself and stop using this website as some sort of yardstick.)