An example of my internal dialogues

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “I wish but to live naturally.”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “Yet is there any other way?
As seasons come and seasons go, mankind’s condition morphs, you know.
But since it changes by our hand, it must be natural to withstand.”

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “I see what you mean, obviously,
And acumen of human mind does give me leisure with my time.
But let me know if you agree: Invention breeds necessity.”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “I shall not throw my car away.”

“Neither would I,” said Mrs. A, “And this is what concerns me,
Fraying values, over-bloated needs, that scrape away propensity
To see interconnectedness, and give the greedy heart some rest.”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “A personal issue I’d say.
It’s just as natural to want rest as to want King Midas’s chest,
And if invention that incites, I join with Smith in my delight.”

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “You don’t feel systematic need
To produce, publish endlessly? To make your Jack a Master She
And in so doing to neglect the simple things Forefathers bled
To secure for posterity—Redwoods, gulf streams for you and me?”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “Do you want cars or skies today?
In verity, you have your pick—contribute or rest as you wish.
Do keep in mind there’s no free lunch and hope your wants subside by much.”

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “Maybe I don’t mean naturally.
In verity, I wish there were more balance in the universe
My afternoons spent catching fish, playing critic o’er evening’s dish,
But giving to society, developing holistically.”

Said one pragmatic Mrs. B. “Remember late 1980s?”
“It was a lovely fantasy, but didn’t work realistically,”

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “But surely, that was too extreme.
Yet even if I had the chance, to leave behind dreams of success
For a life of simplicity, I don’t know if I could, Ms. B.
My brain’s has oxymorons packed—Driven eudaimonmaniac.”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “Please take that lesson home today,
This worrying will turn you gray, and at the end of it you’ll say
No matter how much time I thought, there was no proverb to be bought—
Unless you want to be a monk, there are no goddamn answers, punk.”

Okay, so maybe the last line doesn't quite fit the poem in style...