Amidst me, two paths exist:
A road of ease and control
Versus a walkway a mist.
Each travel owns its own goal.

Many journals I've traversed,
But all have simply been one.
It's one that's been pavement-cursed,
With nothing new that's been done.

I've followed the same wide road,
Going to and fro for years.
Compliance is my abode,
With no original fears.

Life must be more than just this—
A world of predestiny!
With this route, what do I miss?
True love? Camaraderie?

As I stand, there still remains—
Two paths—the worn or the lone;
One, for calculated gains,
The other, holds the unknown.

"Which one?" demands the query.
The road that has always been?
Or the pathway that could be?
I choose; the door is open.