Future

Future

My future is unwritten,
ust a blank space in my mind,
another crisp clean page
just waiting for the words to spill
from the pen in my hand.
The sun doesn’t illuminate my future,
it hides behind the clouds
and leaves all my thoughts in shadow,
in doubt.
So what is waiting for me in my future?
Surely there is no hope for me,
no scrap of fancy left over,
no traces of a whim.
I think the future’s all been used up
on those who sparkle like stars
in the dark of the day,
those beautiful people
who float from minute to minute with no cares.
Their futures are all spelled out for them,
perfectly organized in their 3-ring binders,
neatly arranged and held close for no one else to see.
They’re the lucky ones,
the ones who know what the future holds for them,
exact and precise and unchanging.
and there’s nothing of the future left over for me,
not even a hint of what might befall.
So why do I try,
and, more specifically,
why do any of us try?
Your future is unwritten too,
I can see it in your eyes.
Are you bleeding inside?
Does it make you feel any more alive?
Is there anything left of your future
that can shed light on my past?
Is there anything left in this world
that can keep me away from the sun?
And, most importantly,
is there a future for me at all?