Counting the Days
by Michael Doyle

I hear from some voices to accentuate
The closest approximation to the positive.
Sometimes that's hard with all the dysfunctionality
That comes from being part of the human family.

I have to remind myself that I am not falling,
And these voices that I hear aren't necessarily calling.
Everything around me and in me will be alright.
All that I have to do is hang on and hold on tight.

Not to whine, but this could use improvement.
If only I weren't my best source of amusement.
Maybe then, I could learn to truly love another,
Enough to amuse my worldly sisters and brothers.

All the hard times that hit, like the pandemic,
But you can't hide from the deaths of an epidemic.
You can only roll and try hard to stiffen your soul.
It's tough when you realize all that's out of control.

Life, and the lives we lead, are full of their own taste.
It's not the kind that we want to carelessly waste.
But it is the kind we want to carefully explore,
As you hang on, truthfully hoping for something more.

Not to give anybody more than their share of shame,
No one in this world should be pushed beyond blame.
But forced hugs don't feel even close to the same
As those given with love and without any shame.

These are the faded questions that fill the head
As you think about fake numbers and hurtful things said.
Like, is pushing so hard at the gym worth the misery
As you start to count the days until you're sixty-three?

The evening approaches, and I turn off the ticking clock.
It's time to pick up my guitar and start to rock.
Isn't  it a good way to move past all the future shock
When you and I  unwind and start to intimately talk?

Isn't it funny, when you finally open your charming eyes
And you learn to like that which you once despised?
Life is like that, always casting its quiet surprises.
You don't always have to dream between moon up and sunrise.

(c) September 25, 2025   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved