Woe Is Me Poem by Fiona Burgess

There must be something more
My soul cries for release
From insipid, gutless fools
And this life of mundane continuity
Surely I was meant to be more
Than sleep, work, home, sleep, work, home
With a social event thrown in for spice
Oh woe is me, I sigh
Nothing to alleviate, this restlessness,
This distant need that has no name
Captured by a dream that has no substance
Ruled by unending monotiny
Stuck in a pothole, no fuel to move on
Caught in an endless rush hour traffic jam
Tormented by an end that's in sight
But never gets closer.
I chafe against these social confines
Cast into a mold that doesn't fit
Like too tight shoes and a bed of thorns
Oh, woe is me.