Inside Out

I know they aren’t really important,
That they don’t truly matter,
That they won’t mean anything
A year, or a decade, from now.

But still, I come to worry about
the ladders I climb
and the places I visit,
the city where I live,
and the amount of respect I am given.

I come to worry about the tallest skyscrapers
and the fastest cars,
The latest headlines
and the fanciest bars,
The finest museums, the best food,
The plans I have made, and my current state of mood.

Then there’s the morning rush and the daily commotion,
My lunch attire, dinner jacket, and the need for a promotion,
The size of my office, the speed that I run,
The accolades I’ve earned and the prizes I’ve won.

There’s the game-day result, the score and the ledger,
The outcomes I want, and the superficial pleasures,
All the photographs, mirrors and ascending graphs,
The need to do something, to have more than I have.

I end up worrying about everything that’s seen,
And come to lose sight of what gives me meaning.

I end up forgetting
That it’s all already within,
That all I want is mine to begin.