Grey winter days fly by in an unchanging daze, I throw myself into work seeking positive change

While I grow in steady measure, things feel the same, I often wonder if my intelligence is the one to blame

Complacence and contentment, diametrically opposed

My life is either stable and dull or in massive changing throes

Great stillness, a man filled with self doubts seeking somewhere to go

Yet so disgusted by this mundane life of mine I feel fit to suddenly blow

Stolen novel; please report.

Day to day everything is 'just fine' but days turn to months of me whiling time

The wants of common man are none of mine, what I need is a purpose, perhaps even divine

Yet my options are few, my connections near nil, I've no rich family who will front my quest's bill

Because I am unhappy my tempers oft become ill, I need someplace to utilize all this skill

with rifle, mind or tongue, a warrior novelist who longs to live by the gun.

Such ideals are lofty and so far away, even now I've lost another grey day

How long until these labors of mine to pay? How long before I finally find my way?

You who share my struggle know my thoughts all to well, like a revolving door at the gates of hell

Months spent as if circling the drain, that damned weariness, a soul-deep pain.

Read and write, speak and fight, conflict or flight

Unable to fully sleep at night. Unable to truly see the light

Through all this damned grey monotony