Tanha.

[rewiiired]

Ever get the feeling
that we do it all,
that's it's all done

just to keep things moving inside of us,
to muddy up the waters,
to distract from stagnation,

to keep the feet kicking up off the earth,
constantly in motion
breaking new ground or demolishing the old,
darting in new directions

or like a dog chasing its tail
in circles, circles,
until its drowned and spinning
in a sick and intoxicating dizziness

for we would rather bear the verb
than the empty agony of the static noun
yet something inside is so restless

the body cannot take it,
life cannot contain it;
there's never enough room
or ample flexibility
on the surface, in the outside

so we keep pumping, keep on screaming,
keep on dying just to feel alive
just madly questing for some elbow room
for the bloating monster within,

forever growing,
always tossing and turning, crawling beneath
a skin that could never hope
to stretch out enough to satisfy
in the most transient sense

a hunger that kills without the end of death
if it isn't promptly, continually fed,
but which only grows in hunger
when offered plump and tasty sustenance?