In earnest

I wrote this some months ago, but I feel like a lot of it still applies now. This was sort of a candid poem.

My caffeinated consciousness will not let me rest.
I lay and type, and I ponder the decisions that will decide
the horrid immediacy that is everything upcoming.
Even more so I think about no longer laying
like a Lego that is scattered afar from matching pieces.
Why do I no longer pray, and look for answers
that come in the form of an odd shape in my eggs,
or the dirt pattern on my shoe,
or the cup of my morning of coffee?
That coffee... ahh that was heavenly,
and maybe I described it so for a reason.
Or maybe the tangible taste meant more to me than
box top riddles, or tragic happenings
people just assume are meant for the better,
so that they can cope with the crappy conundrums
we call bits of suffering.
Ah please matching Lego pieces where could you be?
Where are the pieces that allow me to connect
to others that are shaped similar in size?

Of course there is the one that is shaped so perfectly,
that my piece will conjoin with it
in a union of stability.
And our pieces will strengthen
our pending project.