This poem will be quietly read,

by an old man, picking his nose

or a young woman,

with nothing else

to keep her company.

Living,

is about

learning

about

your limits.

We all have them

but many of us

never find them.

They are difficult to discover

in society

unless

you are willing to break the law.

If you get caught,

a cell is waiting for you.

Limits are:

streetlights

parents and teachers (who tell you what you can do, and can’t do)

bosses

jobs

retirement plans

whether or not, you want to be buried or cremated.

Heck, when we are born

we are told that there is right and wrong

good and evil

and you should want to be good

Otherwise, you’ll go to hell,

so you need to obey.

Pride is the belief

that you don’t need any limits—

that you might choose

what to do with your life

because you think

it belongs to you,

but it might be

you have a destiny.

People are afraid to find-out

because faith is required

to step beyond yourself

into the dark.

The ego defends itself

because of past failures (and successes).

It tells you

what is possible

and not possible.

It lies to your pride,

so that you can be safely superior

and never discover

yourself.

I see the fake supermen, walking around

crossing streets

in suits.

You know, how I know, they’re fake?

Because they are

comfortably superior.

Nobody superior

is ever comfortable.

It’s like believing… you can summit Mount Everest

in your living room

while reclining on your La-Z-Boy.

The boss who holds private meetings

is delighted with herself.

She chuckles

and impresses subordinate paper pushers

with her knowledge

of paperwork.

She goes to the opera

not to enjoy

Don Giovanni

or the dark madness of Wagner

but to get noticed, so she can feel comfortably superior.

She has tea parties with her fat friends on Sunday

and they giggle, sharing gossip.

They

will wilt like tulips

when the atmosphere burns

with the power of 1,000 suns.

I get, that it’s not worth it

to reach for your limit,

and find it,

but when you do, there is a strange satisfaction.

It’s the marathon runner

who passes the finish line

and keeps running

because he wants

to find

his limit.