hang in there in poetry

this life is a rock tumbler for our consciousness
for our souls if you’re into that word
I’m not into that word, myself
it reduces all the random mystery
down to some hippy-dippy magic
reductive spellcraft shit
but you do you
say soul if you want
it’s okay

the main point of the analogy is
some of us need more polishing than others
I feel like I mean well but
I’m just so cobbled up with
rough patches and sharp mistaken cleaves
that it would take more than one lifetime
rolling around with the cosmic buckshot
in a tincan of random chance
to be much more than a shambling wreck
of good intentions and clumsy actions

I’m trying
I continue to try
I continue to tumble but, man
someone threw in much grittier grit and
lately it’s just dizzy and I’m hurting
I’ll get over it, I’ll get over it
I’ll get over it if I can manage to survive
long enough to get over it
there’s a hope train coming
but damned if that motherfucker isn’t
still a long way off