This technology

This technology bores me.
And, yet I am sitting here, on a cotton couch,
Stabbing at an object way too close to my eyes
For proper focus.
I feel as a digger, knowing more exists, but only seeing dirt
And my shovel.
Perhaps, perchance, I am lost to this time– a relic,
Or a modern knock-off of one,
From a time when only knowledge mattered
Because spoiling only happened to food and the privileged.
I know myself, but rarely think of what I am capable of.
Does that make me timid? Do I rely so heavily on the mystery of what I can do that I forget how to do it?
I once wrote a poem describing impending death on a battlefield.
I became that character through words and the revision of lines.
Now, I write whatever nonsense I can stop to remember or make up,
And hope that I will, eventually,
Bother to be who I saw a glimpse of then.
I’ve written one play in my life, and yet feel as though I could measure with the best.
Why? Because, I see myself in their times and think, “I am capable of what was done.
I would have made an excellent contemporary.”
Then, why don’t I bother to be the best /now/?
I can be. I just let life get in the way. Life.
That muse which outstays it’s welcome;
That burden that weighs so much, we feel ourselves lighter and, thusly, worthless without it–
And, yet I sit here, stabbing at an object
That is little more than a sandstone, repurposed when the energy fades out.