The Imaginary Race

The mind overflows with emptiness,

As thoughts race without direction or aim.

The body exploding with energy that is useless,

Its graph of movement is a static plane.

Even though it feels it's in constant motion,

Writing down goals it hasn't begun to attain.

As though every day it hopes to create sunshine,

Instead it closes the blinds and expects the rain.

It has lost appreciation for the gift of time,

Leading itself to constant disappointment,

Paving a path made of it's own tears,

Riding at one speed although it has many gears.