Look out…

We look out
from the portholes
of our berth
hanging
by fingertips
and by our fingertips
we hang
from the gunwales of existence
rocking
slowly
yet so mortally quickly
in the sea
in the sea
we look out
from our berth
and see a sea
of lives
we could
that we could lead
save for
the fact that
we can't lead
a life
that is not
our own
leaden, leavened life
squinting to see
if
and when
and how
we can fit
into the same life
whose bigness
makes it smaller
as a mountain
shrinks in space
spacing, straining the eye
anywhere
anywhere but beyond
the humbling, crumbling confines
of our inner mountain
poring over the porthole
to see
whether our life is
too small
or too large
but our eyes get portholed
small and unmoving and rusted
never clear unless scoured
never opened unless broken
Sealed open
like blind buttons
in a dark silent closet
Blind from glimmers
of the who we should be
or whose we should be
and how
how we should ought to best be
seeing how
we think others do be
Desiring what he's got
because he's got
what we ought maybe probably should desire
to get
Wasting time
with forehead clutched minutes
of Amiwastingtime?s
Pondering the degree
of our degrees
and the grades
of our fellow grads
and the depth
of our low-priced shallowness
Never realizing that if
if we were meant to live the life
we weren't living
we wouldn't be living
the life we were meant to live