The Misery of A Life Devoted to Self
By Katherine Breanne Parilli
Boring is a life devoted to self.
Weighted down by a mountain of I’s,
With feet bogged down in a drowning murk of me’s,
And encumbered with a heavy filed pack of myself,
There is no room for joy,
And not time for others.
Devoted to self,
Enslaved to me,
Dedicated to a glass wall of myself,
What joy can there be?
What pleasure is there to be had in green hills,
Lofty mountain peaks,
Verdure laden branches waving in the wind,
And the smiling faces of delicate flowers?
For a life where self is the goal,
Where I am is the king,
And serve me only for I am queen,
Cannot afford to take notice of these simple things.
Nor would they find pleasure in removing their face,
Enamored by their reflection,
] to see something of equal delight,
Of greater beauty,
And of superior substance.
No, a life built on self,
Build on the struggle to hoist one’s legs
Over their own head,
Will find no relief,
No heart pounding wonder,
Will see no reason to smile,
In the simple things of life.
And when life’s short run comes to a close,
And the hour of last reflection arrives,
They will too late discover
That life held no real pleasure,
Nor possessed no lasting joy.
For too late they will learn
As they walk the lonely path
Of life’s bittersweet evening,
That all they loved,
All that they desired,
Has faded uselessly away,
Never to be found,
Because it was devoid of lasting
Substance and joy.