we make so often is
that we
stay too long
at the proverbial fair.
whether in love gone
sour,
or a job we hate.
the room we rent.
we delay
tomorrow, but hoping
and wishing
that things
will get better.
we don't want to quit,
surrender.
we press on, gritting
our teeth,
we dig in.
but in the end we're
just digging our
own grave.
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