A Knight in Motley Armor

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I don't know what I'm going to write 
until my pen has already started moving. 
Nor do I know what I'm doodling until my pen stops. 
It's almost arbitrary, but never meaningless. 
Slivers of worth seep through the ink until 
something original and profound is left behind. 

I suppose that's true of life in general, aimlessly 
creating meaning by just moving through the days. 
I hope my life is writing a comedy and not an utter tragedy. 
I'll only know when the story is over. 

Just as my hand cramps holding this pen, 
I strain to make it through the days as they creep by. 
I desire to be more relaxed and ease through time, 
but I do this by constantly avoiding the present moment. 
I can't live back then, nor really soon. Only now... 
and now almost always sucks. 

Like my handwriting, I leave a barely legible account 
of frivolous retreats from living in the now. 
Am I writing anything of purpose, 
or is writing now the only purpose I have left? 

I wish to leave the page filled up to the 
end with clever, compassionate wisdom, 
but I bumble and folly like a fool in motley, 
driveling conversations sounding from the bells on my cap. 

Perhaps today I'll amuse the court instead 
of causing another embarrassing scene 
of regretful actions and misdeeds. 
And perchance, 
I'll find a rhythm to march along to, 
a battle theme to push me towards positive action. 
Maybe the fool will play the knight one of these days. 

Again, only time will tell if this is all worth it in the end. 
We must choose to believe it is.